


At Dawn We Break, At Dusk We Stand

by misspensandscribbles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Post-Canon, R plus L equals J, Season 7 Spoilers, The King in The North
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 23:59:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11368362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misspensandscribbles/pseuds/misspensandscribbles
Summary: "Forgive me," he tells her, his voice is almost inaudible but there is no mistaking the pleading in his tone. He must only fall to his knees before her, and then he'll be no different from the slaves and beggars she had seen in King's Landing."For what, your Grace?" she asks, her voice cold and detached. She sees him wince as though her words have cut through his skin, yet she remains unmoved. She cannot afford to let herself feel now.He doesn't answer her question. Instead, he offers an explanation. "I couldn't allow the North to go through yet another war, Sansa, especially not one against dragons."





	1. Chapter 1

She’s just finished stitching the gash on the arm of one of her men when she hears the shouts calling for Winterfell’s gates to be opened, announcing the arrival of the man and woman who have saved Westeros from a fate worse than death.

It’s been almost two weeks since the war was won, but the blood and death that it brought has yet to cease. As each day would pass, more and more of the injured and dying would fill her castle to the brim that she’d ordered everyone who could properly hold a needle to clean and stitch up every wound. The soldiers, who have been off fighting and haven’t witnessed with their own eyes the sheer devotion and service of Sansa to her people and to the North, had been completely awestruck when they were approached by none other than the Lady of Winterfell herself with a needle and a wet cloth at hand.

A raven had arrived three days ago, bearing news that the royal army was due to reach their gates in four days’ time. Since then, all the workers and servants of Winterfell have been working tirelessly to prepare for the return of the King in the North as well as the foreign queen whom every Northman is wary of. She breathes a sigh of relief knowing that, even though their party has arrived earlier than expected, her keep is more than prepared.

After offering the wounded man in front of her a reassuring smile, she rises on her feet, wipes her bloodied hands on her already bloodied skirts and waits for the procession to reach the yard.

 _Steadfast like Father, wise like Mother, fearless like Robb, free like Rickon and gentle like Lady._ She repeats this over and over in her head, this mantra of hers that has kept her pushing forward even when it would feel like she was pushing against the gods themselves.

It isn’t long before they enter through the gates atop their horses, Jon comes in first followed closely by the white-haired queen.

Sansa can’t help but think it all quite underwhelming. She had been certain their arrival would be accompanied by the two dragons left to them, if not to parade their victory for all to see, then surely to dispel the whispers for the North to keep its independence. She’s sure this Targaryen queen has heard them. Why else would she decide to stay in Winterfell before going south to claim the throne from Cersei Lannister? But Daenerys’ presence here does little to deter her people from expressing their desire to hold on to their sovereignty.

 _It might be too late for that,_ she wants to warn them. For if Littlefinger’s own whispers to her are anything to go by, then there would be no freedom for the North… only a new queen. And contrary to the pretty picture he so often had painted for her, it will not be her.

Sansa gracefully drops to her knee and bows to her king. _And him alone,_ she tells herself. It only takes but a fraction of a second for everyone else to follow the Lady of Winterfell. He is already at the center of the courtyard, only a few feet away from her. Though her eyes are trained to the ground, she can hear him inhale sharply. It doesn’t surprise her how he still finds this royal treatment incredibly discomfiting – it’s one of the reasons why she believes him deserving of it all.

What does catch her attention and brings her to lift up her gaze is the sound of soft panting and footfalls that seem to be getting nearer and nearer. The mask she wears doesn’t falter until she sees the fearsome creature making its way toward her. She can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of her lips. There are no dragons in Winterfell today, only direwolves. Just as it always should be.

“Ghost,” she whispers affectionately as the beast stops before her, eyes even redder than her fire-kissed hair. She combs her fingers through its fur, paying no mind to the grime that covers the wolf. “I am glad to see you again, my friend.”

Silent as always, Ghost leans into her touch, nuzzling up to her while she embraces him. They understand each other completely now. She’s felt his strength, his fears, his instincts, and he has felt hers in return. The direwolf stares into her eyes until it turns its head around, sensing its master who now approaches them. Ghost moves to the side as she bows her head again and waits until he acknowledges her as is customary.

However, he surprises her when, instead of bidding her to stand, he drops to his knees so that they are eye level. She has not prepared herself for this and so she can’t stop the small gasp that escapes her lips as she comes face to face with the man who has haunted her dreams the second he left Winterfell eight moons ago without the assurance of coming back alive. Immediately, she bows her head to conceal the effect he has on her.

“Sansa,” he breathes out.

His voice startles her and immediately snaps her back to attention. “My king,” she says, her voice smooth as silk, betraying nothing about the flood of emotions raging with her.

“ _Sansa,_ ” he pleads so softly that only she can hear.

The desperation in his voice strikes a chord deep in her chest. It brings her back to the countless times she would walk atop the ramparts in the early dawn when her duties do not yet demand her, and whisper his name out into the winds of winter, begging him to survive, to return.

She raises her head and meets his gaze, this time ready to face his grey eyes. It pains her like a knife in her gut to know that, out here in the open, the only show of affection propriety and self-preservation will allow her is a smile. But she does it all the same. It’s what he deserves at the very least. “Jon,” she says quietly, making sure that no one hears it but him. “You have returned.”

Relief washes over his face at her words but it is short-lived. Before either of them can say anything else, the dragon queen appears beside him and places a hand on his shoulder. Sansa doesn’t miss the way he winces when she does, like she’s burnt him.

“Lady Stark."

She bows her head yet again. “Your Grace.”

“Rise,” the other woman says.

Her tone is composed and docile, but it does nothing to put out the fury that ignites within Sansa. _I am not yours to command,_ she wants to seethe at her. But the sight of Jon with his beseeching eyes and the distant sound of dragons screeching force her to hold her tongue and swallow her pride. She stands, breaking the eerie silence as the rest follow suit.

Jon, who has also risen, shifts his weight between his feet while the two women hold each other’s gaze. It is Daenerys Targaryen who breaks first, her lips curving upward in an excruciatingly polite smile. And Sansa, for all the ice in her veins and winter in her bones, remains impassive, her sapphire eyes devoid of any emotion and her chapped lips pressed in a straight line. She stands with her back straightened and her chin held high, almost rigid but also very much regal.

“I have much to tell you.” Jon’s voice slices through the tension in the air. He looks at the Targaryen queen with questioning eyes, silently asking for permission. It makes Sansa want to scoff and shake her fists. _You are a king!_ she wants to tell him. When Daenerys gives him an imperceptible nod, he continues, “Perhaps we can talk somewhere in private?”

His eyes beg her to acquiesce, but it’s the last thing she wants to do even if the idea of finally being alone with him stirs an ocean of fervor within her. Everything she’s seen and heard so far has shown her that once again Littlefinger proved to be right. It irks her, truly, how that pathetic slip of a man can still taunt her even from the grave. Sansa knows there’s no way she will not have this conversation with him. However, when she catches a glimpse of two dearly familiar faces over Jon’s shoulder, she decides to do the next best thing instead.

She offers Jon a smile as hollow and diplomatic as the one the Targaryen queen gave her just moments ago. “I’m afraid that must wait until this evening, Your Grace,” she says. “As the Lady of Winterfell, I must see to the needs of my people first before I can attend to other matters. Surely you understand.”

She can read on his face the exact moment it dawns on him that she already has an inkling of what he intends to tell her. She watches as he tries but fails to keep the guilt and shame from completely showing.

It’s no use, she wants to tell him. His face is a book that Sansa has learned to read expertly during the many moons they’ve spent in each other’s company after reuniting at Castle Black. Often she knows what he is thinking or feeling before even he does. The fact that he can’t say the same about her wounds her as much as it relieves her for what good will it do if he can see her, can truly see her, if he is too damn honorable to do anything about it?

“If I may have your leave, my king, I see Lady Brienne and Podrick have also returned, and I wish to see how they are faring,” she continues.

Jon looks behind him as if to check if she is telling the truth, and Sansa has to temper down her annoyance. Before he can respond, Daenerys clears her throat. There is no smile on her face anymore.

“Lady Stark, we have more pressing matters than your –“

“It’s alright, Dany. It can wait,” Jon cuts her off with a resigned voice. Meeting her gaze and purposely ignoring the pointed stare the dragon queen is giving him, he nods his head in assent to her request.

She turns to call forth her steward. “Henrik will show both of you to your chambers. Your men will be seen to as well.”

Not waiting for Jon or Daenerys to say anything else, Sansa curtsies and walks past them without another word, disregarding the Targaryen queen’s pointed glare as well as Jon’s pained look. She finds it doesn’t require much effort for her to do so, especially when she feels her own anger, confusion and disappointment clashing within her like the waves of Blackwater Bay smashing against the rocky cliffs of King’s Landing.

_Steadfast like Father, wise like Mother, fearless like Robb, free like Rickon and gentle like Lady._

“My lady.”

The welcomed voices of Brienne and Podrick bring her out of her thoughts. They bow their head as she nears them.

“Brienne, Pod. Thank the gods you’re both safe,” she says sincerely, the sight of her two trusted companions allow her to push down the flurry of unrest at least for the time being. “You ought to have yourselves checked by the maester.”

“There is no need, my lady,” Brienne answers. “We’re one of the fortunate ones who came out of battle unharmed.”

Immediately, Sansa crosses her arms over her chest as she shoots a pointed look at the bandage wrapped around the lady knight’s shoulder and the makeshift sling supporting the squire’s arm. “I may not have fought in battle, Lady Brienne, but I do know what unharmed looks like, and you are most certainly not it.”

Before he can stop himself, Podrick lets out a chuckle and earns a glare from his knight and a smile from his lady. Upon seeing the disapproval on Brienne’s face, he swiftly mumbles a halfhearted apology and clams up in an instant to Sansa’s amusement.

“There are others who’ve had it far worse, my lady,” Brienne speaks again.

It’s the way her eyes drop to the ground, the way her tone loses its edge, the way her straight shoulders sag a little bit when she says it that cause Sansa alarm. She knows that look. It’s the look of the Stranger’s messenger.

She lays a hand on Podrick’s uninjured arm. “Pod, please find Maester Lucan. Tell him I have need of him. Brienne and I will be in the godswood.”

“Yes, my lady.” The squire bows his head before leaving the two women to carry out his task.

Slowly, Sansa steps closer to her sworn shield and loops an arm around hers. “Walk with me, Brienne,” she tells her gently.

Together, they make their way to the godswood, but not before she steals a glance behind her to the King in the North and the dragon queen. She knows the dangers of doing so, yet she does it anyway.

Any other time she wouldn’t have allowed herself to fall into such temptation. It’s why she’s made it this far – her acquired aptitude to guard and mask her own desires and emotions, her innate ability to be ice and steel and Stark.

But this time, she allows herself one moment of weakness.

It doesn’t surprise her that Jon has his back to her as he talks with Henrik, possibly about the state of Winterfell and the North. What does surprise her are the striking amethyst eyes that are staring straight into hers, almost as if they are sizing her up, challenging her to a battle she is destined to lose.

Sansa, however, doesn’t blush or waver at being caught. Neither does she look away or cower in embarrassment. What is the point? They both know what the other wants, and they both know that the key to getting what they want is the bastard-turned-King, the man who is half wolf and half dragon.

Instead, Sansa Stark meets Daenerys Targaryen’s gaze with eyes that are just as striking and tilts her head in a small nod of acknowledgement before she lets Brienne lead her to their destination.

She wishes that the cool and self-assured façade she wears extends to her insides, but the rapid beating of her heart and the heaviness that is forcing its way down her throat are a sharp reminder that her expertise in pretending, while enough to fool everyone else around her, does absolutely nothing to convince her foolish heart.

For the first time since she stopped being a pawn and decided to become a player, she loses her footing. Suddenly, she feels frighteningly incompetent at this game she’s become a master in, all because of a single word that now pounds in her head and chest like a thousand swords clashing against each other in war.

_Dany. He called her Dany._

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as they are deep enough in the godswood where she’s certain no curious ears and wandering eyes linger, Sansa turns to her closest confidant. “Who is it, Brienne?”

“My la-“

“It’s just us now,” she reminds her gently.

Brienne lets out a long exhale. “Sansa,” she finally says without any of the hesitation or awkwardness everyone else would expect to hear from her when she addresses her lady.

At first, Sansa thought the lady knight would never be able to call her by name without her face contorting in a grimace. And it did seem that way for a time until a familiar face from both their past showed up in Winterfell’s gates leading an army of lions to help the wolves and the dragons fight off the Others.

For all his show of smugness and arrogance, Jaime Lannister remains entirely ignorant of the greatest achievement he’s ever done as far as Sansa is concerned. If it weren’t for him and the peculiar attention he kept showering her sworn shield, Brienne would’ve never been so desperate enough to cross that line between seeing her as someone she’s honor bound to serve and treating her as one would a friend. The Maid of Tarth had no one to turn to but her when the Kingslayer’s attentions had become too confusing for her to understand.

“I didn’t see Jaime among the men who have returned,” Sansa says hesitantly.

Brienne’s eyes soften at her words, and immediately Sansa feels the anxiety within her lessen. “He is alright,” the knight says. “I told him to remain at the back of the army. He’d already gotten away with insulting Daenerys to her face once. I reckoned he wouldn’t be as lucky the second time.”

She breathes a sigh of relief, smiling.

It’s not just because of Brienne that she’s relieved to hear of the Kingslayer’s survival. No one was more surprised than her when Jaime Lannister entered the gates of Winterfell, walked right past Jon and Daenerys without sparing either of them a glance and knelt in front of Sansa to pledge his sword to her. She was sure that Daenerys would’ve fed him to her dragons then and there, but Jaime didn’t seem to care about the dragons or their mother.

“I made a vow to your mother to keep you safe. With your permission, Lady Sansa, I ask to be granted the honor of fulfilling it,” he’d said to her.

She had every intention of throwing his offer back at his face – Littlefinger had already told her about what he did to Bran. But before she could do so, Brienne had asked to speak with her in private. It had been the knight’s words that made her change her mind, that and the fact that he offered his service to her in front of the daughter of the mad king he’d infamously killed.

Since then, Jaime had gradually become one of Sansa’s constant companions. She appreciated how he didn’t ask for her forgiveness, telling her right away that he does not deserve it, that he only wishes to atone for his crimes against her and her family.

Immediately, he set out to prove his worth to her. When murmurs of a rivalry between two of the most beautiful women in all the seven kingdoms began to spread, he’d made it clear to everyone whose side he’s on. He would always pick a fight with Daenerys’ men, taunting Greyworm or one of the Dothraki. He would always make sure that he would be Sansa’s escort when Daenerys would be accompanied by Tyrion, no doubt to show that not all Lannisters favored the Targaryen over the Stark.

“Sansa,” Brienne says, pulling her away from her thoughts. She doesn’t understand the sullen expression on her face when she’s said so herself that Jaime is well.

“Yes?”

“Theon did not make it.”

She stands motionless as the words sink in, acutely aware of the dull ache that is slowly filling her lungs, threatening to suffocate her.

“Oh,” is all she can say.

In spite of his betrayal, of the crimes he committed against her family, Theon would always hold a place in her heart. He was the only one who could ever truly understand what she went through with Ramsay, the only one she’s sure of who would never look at her scars with disgust. He saved her from Ramsay, not as a ploy or as part of some grander scheme. No, Theon knew firsthand what that monster could do if he got caught and still he helped her, was even willing to sacrifice himself to allow her to escape. Jon might’ve been the one to hand Ramsay to her on a silver platter, but it was Theon who made it possible for her to reach Jon in the first place.

Sansa thinks back to the time Theon returned to Winterfell as part of Daenerys’ company. By then, she’d already known that in spite of their shaky alliance, Daenerys wanted Jon to give up his crown and swear fealty to her, desiring to sit on the iron throne to rule all of Westeros. Seeing Theon, whom she thought to be _her_ ally, with the woman who wanted to take the North made her see red. She was livid, thinking him a traitor twice over, and she made sure to let him know.

“I… Sansa, I thought I could help you get Winterfell back from the Boltons,” he’d stuttered as he practically trembled in her solar. “By the time I found out you’d already succeeded, we already allied with her.”

“Well I did, I took back Winterfell from Ramsay, and I did it without your help or _hers_ ,” she’d spat back. “So now you can go back to wherever you came from and take your dragon queen with you!”

Theon had gone to his knees then. “It’s my sister, Asha, who will rule the Iron Islands. I do not want it, any of it. I only wish to stay here and serve you if you would have me. That’s all I want, Sansa.”

And that was all he did. Since that day, he was constantly by her side, hovering like a handmaid would her lady, only taking his leave when she was visited by Jon.

_Oh Theon._

“Was it quick?” She hears herself ask.

“Yes. He did not suffer,” Brienne answered solemnly.

Sansa doesn’t have it in her to study Brienne’s face to inspect for dishonesty. Instead, she nods her head, accepting the answer she’s been given.

“He did what you asked of him up to the very end,” her friend continues. “He protected the king as best he could, even if His Grace made no attempt to conceal his dislike of him.”

At that, she couldn’t help the sad smile that tugged on her lips. “Theon never did care about what Jon thought,” she says fondly.

“You would know more than I,” Brienne says before pausing to clear her throat. “There is something else I must tell you.”

“What is it?”

Cleary hesitant, Brienne says, “We’ve heard whispers about it before, but now…”

“But now what?” Sansa presses even though she already knows where this conversation is heading, but deciding it’s best to first speak about it to the one person who has been honest with her from the start before discussing it with anyone else.

“I heard it once from Daenerys herself after the war was won,” Brienne eventually admits. “She told King Jon that she has kept her end of their agreement, and that now she expects him to bend the knee before they march south to claim the iron throne.”

“I figured as much.” Sansa sighs. “What was Jon’s response?”

“He said he must speak with you and the rest of the Northern lords first. She was none too pleased with her answer, that much was obvious.”

The lady knight looks around, checking her surroundings before speaking again. “I also overheard talk amongst the men, Tyrell and Martell men in particular, saying that the dragon queen intends to marry His Grace,” she reluctantly says. She looks at her with eyes full of sympathy and guilt as though she was to blame for the news she’s brought. “It would be the easiest way to bring the North to heel, they said. And…” she stops herself short, eyes widening in alarm and it is clear to Sansa that she never intended to say that last part.

“Tell me,” she says, wringing her hands together. She knows she’s not hiding her nervousness well, but she finds that, in Brienne’s presence, it’s easy for her not to care.

Brienne seems to deflate then and there, accepting defeat in this game of dancing around bitter truths – a game they both know Sansa hates playing regardless of how good she is at it. She lets out a weary exhale. “They also said that King Jon would certainly agree to wed her since they think he’s half in love with her already,” she says almost regrettably. “It would seem they too have heard about their… previous dalliance.”

She nods absently, ignoring the sharp pain Brienne’s words have inflicted. _Of course everyone knows,_ she thinks. _If Littlefinger didn’t make sure of it then Varys definitely would have._

“Daenerys Targaryen is the most beautiful woman in Westeros,” Sansa says in an calm, collected voice. “She’s shown strength and bravery, and loathe as I am to admit it, we would all be dead if it weren’t for her dragons. I wouldn’t be surprised if every man falls to his knees for her.”

“But Jon Snow is not every man,” Brienne says. “He is king.”

“If he gives in to her demands, he will soon be king in name alone,” she whispers unexpectedly, surprising even herself.

Her friend’s eyes harden, her jaw clenching. “Then he will be just like every man,” she says crisply. “And the North deserves better. _You_ deserve better.” There is caution in her voice, worry that her words might upset her lady, but there is steel in there as well because Brienne is nothing if not honest and brave.

Sansa holds her gaze then, the two sharing an unspoken understanding. She lays a hand on Brienne’s arm and squeezes, hoping that small gesture is enough to convey the gratitude she feels.

“Come, Brienne,” she says. “I fear Maester Lucan will have a hard time finding us this deep into the woods. I want him to check on your wounds,” she pauses, raising a hand to stop her from whatever rebuttal the knight wishes to say. “And then you are to bring him to our men who need immediate attention.”

“My lady –“ the knight tries regardless, formally addressing her.

“Pod will stay with me,” she assures her with a smile. “I have to find Asha Greyjoy.”

Brienne still doesn’t move. Instead, she carefully asks, “What about King Jon?" 

“What about His Grace?”

“He wishes to speak with you, no doubt about the demands of Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Aye, he does, but he will have to wait. Theon was a good man. I wouldn’t be here now if not for him. The least I can do is to offer my condolences to his sister. I know what it is like to lose a brother,” she pauses, Robb’s face suddenly appearing in her mind, before she forces it away.

“Do you think His Grace will give her what she wants?” Brienne can’t help but ask.

Sansa isn’t surprised by the hint of uncertainty Brienne is showing regarding Jon. It’s always been that way since Castle Black, and she supposes it’s her fault. The fact that she lied to him about Littlefinger back then didn’t exactly encourage Brienne to trust him. The knight has always made it clear that while she thinks Jon is a better man than most, her loyalties are with Sansa and Sansa alone.

“We have yet to speak of _her_ ,” Sansa says. “I shall wait for us to do so before I think anything more of it.”

It’s a lie, and they both know it. If there’s only one thing Sansa Stark is good at, it is thinking ahead, calculating and measuring every step she must take, contemplating every possibility and every scenario, in order to choose what the best course of action is. Everything she’s gone through, every scar in her body has hammered that lesson into her. It’s simply impossible for the Lady of Winterfell to ignore such a critical matter especially when it concerns the North for everyone knows how ferociously protective she is of her home and the land it belongs to.

But there is a reason why Sansa chooses her company over anyone else’s in times like this.

Unlike Littlefinger who hungered for her every passing thought out of obsession, unlike Jaime who never seems to know when to shut his mouth, unlike Arya who sometimes forgets that she is no longer the girl who had called her horseface when they were younger, unlike Bran whose greensight unnerves her at times, and unlike Jon who hasn’t yet learned how to keep his emotions in check, Brienne knows when to leave Sansa alone with her own thoughts, trusting implicitly in her lady.

It is that trust that makes Brienne nod silently as she leads Winterfell’s beloved Stark out of the godswood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lady of Winterfell has a talk with the Hand of the Dragon Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly did not expect this story to get as much attention as it has so thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read. :)
> 
> Also, after reading the comments I've received so far, I feel I have to point out that this story will be purely from the POV of Sansa so please keep in mind that the portrayal of the characters is based on how I think her perception of them is.

To Sansa’s relief, she had been unable to speak with Jon that night or the day after that. She’d spent most of her time tending to her injured men, stitching up the wounds herself due to the lack of maesters, and managing the Winterfell’s affairs. Jon, on the other hand, had found himself constantly having to receive, almost miserably, the outpouring of praise and gratitude of every man, woman and child who can talk, from the common townfolk to the highborn lords and ladies.

She hasn’t seen much of him and Daenerys since yesterday, and it’s certainly not for lack of her painstaking effort to avoid them. When the people had gathered in the great hall for supper, Sansa had chosen that time to visit the soldiers at the sick ward, taking her dinner in her solar with Brienne afterward.

Jon had sent Ser Davos to ask her to join them. When she refused and Jon had not bothered to convince her himself, she’d been grateful for it even though a small, insignificant part of her had hoped that he would, had wanted to see him without having to play their roles as the King in the North and the Lady of Winterfell. She squashed the idea just as quickly as it popped up. There would be nothing good that could come out of that, she decided.

But now, two days after the triumphant return of Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen, she knows she will have to deal with the matter soon enough. The longer she delays it, the worse the North will be, and right now the North is all that matters. And so she woke up today, preparing herself to defend her land and her people from a queen who, in her eyes, is as false as the one currently sitting on the iron throne, and perhaps even from their king whose crown he never wanted to wear.

She is caught by surprise, though, when someone other than the two decides to broach the issue with her first.

When Jaime arrives in her chamber and informs her that his brother wishes to speak to her in the solar he’s been given during his stay, she hopes it isn’t for reasons she thinks it would be. Either Jaime can read her mind or he shares the same worry as she does because he tells Podrick he will be taking over guard duty to accompany her there.

Podrick looks to Sansa for confirmation to which she nods her head. She will never say it out loud lest she offends this squire who has been nothing but loyal to her since her escape from Ramsay, but she would certainly be more comfortable having Tyrion Lannister’s brother with her when she does talk to him rather than the man who once served him just as faithfully and who feels nothing but fondness toward him.

“Did Lord Tyrion mention what he wants to discuss with me, Ser Jaime?” she asks as they make their way through the halls leading up to the west wing of the keep where the assigned rooms of their guests are.

“No, he did not,” Jaime answers. “And I suspect that was his intention.”

She thinks so as well. Everyone knows the Lannister brothers have been at odds with each other since their reunion. Jaime, still feeling betrayed by Tyrion’s murder of their father, has never bothered to conceal his frustration and dismay at his younger brother’s loyalty to the Targaryen.

“You choose the Mad King’s daughter over her? She was once your _wife_ ,” Jaime had pointed to her as he’d hissed at Tyrion when the latter outright rebuffed the former’s remark that he should step down as Daenerys’ hand.

Tyrion had glanced at her apologetically then but nonetheless replied, “Wife, but not queen.”

She’d found it all quite amusing at first. The only man who was kind to her when she was still a hostage in King’s Landing now serves the woman who demands she bend the knee, while the man who pushed her brother off a tower had declared on multiple occasions that he has no qualms about pushing that very same woman off that very same tower. She hushed him every time Jaime had done so, knowing full well that if the wrong ears heard him, he would not only be without a hand but a head as well.

As the days would go by though and she would see how Daenerys would seek her former husband’s counsel more than anyone else, her amusement had turned into something akin to what Jaime has been feeling.

The truth is bitter in her mouth but she can admit it all the same – knowing firsthand how Tyrion’s mind works, Sansa would certainly be more at ease if the Imp stood in her corner and not in the corner opposite her. She would never say this out loud but perhaps her odds would be better if he is the Lannister on her side and not the one now walking beside her.

“But you have your own speculation, yes?” she asks Jaime in a low voice as she nods to the servants who move to the side to make way for them.

He shrugs. “I do. And I reckon they’re more or less similar to yours.”

“I hope you are accompanying me for my benefit, Ser, and not your brother’s,” she teases even though she doesn’t doubt him in the slightest.

Jaime actually laughs at that and loudly too. Among her guards, Jaime is the only one who can be so candid and uninhibited with her, and she finds it quite refreshing… most times. “I daresay it’s more for my own,” he says mischievously.

She quirks a brow at him, a silent demand that he explain. 

“I must confess I find the idea of being the sole witness to a private conversation between my brother, the demon monkey imp turned kinslayer turned hand of the dragon queen, and his former lady wife, the little dove turned bastard turned Lady of Winterfell, too tempting to turn down,” he says with a smirk.

“Of course you would,” she scoffs. But then all of a sudden, she stops and looks to him with a serious expression. “Ser Jaime, Lord Tyrion may be your brother and my former lord husband,” she says carefully, softly. “But I fully intend to treat him as an ally of a Targaryen and no one else.”

He grins at her. “I would be immensely disappointed if you didn’t, Red Wolf."

She rolls her eyes at the term. Jaime only ever calls her that in his most jovial moments. It had started when word began to spread that Daenerys Targaryen wanted the North to be under her rule along with the rest of the six kingdoms and that she would not take no for an answer. This was before anyone ever truly comprehended the horror of the dead army beyond the wall, when everyone’s attention was focused on this foreigner from Essos who declared herself the rightful queen of a land she hadn’t stepped foot on for years. The Northerners had seethed with silent anger. There were grumblings that the King had made a mistake by bringing this woman to the North.

But alongside that were whispers of praise for the Lady of Winterfell who stood defiant against the dragon in her own way, always tilting her chin up and straightening her back in the Targaryen’s presence, forcing the shorter woman to look up to her. She would always address the dragon queen with perfect courtesy but also with acute coldness that only children of the North could muster.

“Maybe you should wear the crown,” Jaime had told her offhandedly once. They, along with Brienne and Podrick, were on the ramparts overlooking the Wolfswood while the rest of the men were feasting in the Great Hall. He’d said it so casually that one wouldn’t think he had just said something treasonous.

Granted, he’d been quite drunk at the time, but Sansa knew people have been sentenced to death for smaller crimes than that. But before she or Brienne could admonish him for such a remark, Podrick, who consumed more ale than he was used to, had stunned them all by adding, “Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, Lady of Winterfell… the Red Wolf.”

Jaime had doubled over in laughter, agreeing wholeheartedly with Podrick who had turned as red as a tomato; the squire had been just as surprised with himself as the rest of them apparently. And though Sansa had known that the proper thing to do was to reprimand both her guards, and maybe even Brienne as well for standing idly by with an amused expression on her face, she couldn’t really find it in herself to do so.

 _The Red Wolf,_ she’d echoed in her head. She’d been called many names before – stupid girl, whore, little dove, little bird, Alayne Stone, Cat – but never that, never wolf. And now that she had, she’d found that she quite likes the sound of it.

“Hush, Ser,” she hisses at Jaime now. Unlike that night, Sansa is very much aware of how damning that title is now, where words spoken out in the open can be used against them.

Jaime’s smile falters, but still he nods his head.

“Let us make haste. I do not want to keep Lord Tyrion waiting,” she says as she resumes walking again.

Soon enough, they find themselves being led into Tyrion’s solar by an Unsullied soldier who doesn’t utter a single word. As she passes him, Sansa finds herself appreciating the man more than any of the men she encountered in the South. There is one good thing about these warriors – they do not look at her with lustful eyes that wish to own her. The Dothraki, on the other hand, well, there is a reason why she does not venture out to their camp.

“Ah, Lady Stark! It is so gracious of you to accept my invitation at such short notice,” Tyrion greets her as he hops down from his seat and approaches her. Turning to Jaime, he says, “Brother, my thanks for bringing her here. I can assure you that she will be perfectly safe in my company.”

Jaime snorts. “I wish that isn’t your way of telling me to bugger off. You may be hand of your dragon queen, but you are still my little brother.”

Tyrion waves his arms in a placating manner. “On the contrary, I only thought that Lady Stark here would prefer to discuss these… delicate matters in private.

“He shall stay.” Sansa’s voice cuts in, finality in her voice. “Your brother is one of my sworn shields, Lord Tyrion. It is his duty to see to my protection as well as to keep to himself whatever _delicate matters_ are discussed in this room.”

She observes Tyrion as he processes her words. It’s quite obvious the man still can’t quite grasp the idea of a Lannister, especially _this_ Lannister, faithfully serving a Stark, and a Stark, especially _this_ Stark, entrusting her life to a Lannister. She’s aware of the absurdity of it all, but then again there are more absurd things that have happened. Like dragons in a land of ice and snow.

“Very well,” Tyrion finally relents, and Sansa resists the urge to tell him that he never had a say in the matter. “However, I strongly advise your ladyship to make sure that none of what is said here leaves these walls. The future of Westeros is at stake as you well know.”

“You know as much as I do, Lord Tyrion, that I am not one to run my mouth like some idiot child… not anymore,” she says evenly.

“I think you’ve already proven to the whole seven kingdoms that you are most certainly not an idiot or a child, my lady,” he says with a hint of admiration. “Truly, you’ve grown to become one of the greatest players in the game."

She gifts him one of her more genuine smiles, knowing that his words are meant purely as a compliment with no strings attached.

Without waiting for him to say anything else, she moves to sit on the chair directly in front of the chair Tyrion vacated earlier and beckons Jaime to stand guard by the door. She clasps her hands on her lap before turning to face her former husband who has already seated himself. 

“And now we begin another,” she announces.

 

* * *

 

Sansa will always be grateful to Tyrion for the kindness he showed during her time in King’s Landing and their sham of a marriage. But he is the dragon queen’s hand now, and he wants what his queen wants even when the North isn’t something a Targaryen ought to ever have.

Before, in their time in the Capital, she could never be sure if they were playing for the same team or, at the very least, if they were playing against the same enemy. She knew Tyrion hated his sister and father, but she also knew he was loyal to his family name. The compassion he showed her often compelled her to consider that he was someone she could trust.

Since he arrived with Daenerys, however, it has become crystal clear to her that she and Tyrion are now on the opposite sides of the board and that every move either of them makes is directly against the other.

Still, a part of her had hoped that Tyrion would see wisdom in what she would say, that he would empathize with her even since they both know what it’s like to have something they love taken away from them. He has always been the most kindhearted of them all, Jaime included.

So when it dawns on her that her former husband has invited her with the sole intention of convincing her to bend the knee, Sansa finds herself utterly disappointed. And furious.

She is unsurprised when Tyrion’s litany of reasons why the North must _ally_ with the South is interrupted by a man’s voice behind her. After all, it is Jaime who has always failed miserably in keeping his emotions in check.

“Enough, brother,” Jaime says as he approaches them to stand at Sansa’s side. They’ve been talking for nearly an hour and he has said nothing until now. “If I knew you sought my lady’s company in order to feed her this horseshit, I would have advised her not to come.”

Tyrion sighs. “Jaime –“

“You may be my brother, Tyrion, but do not think for one second I will stand by silently and allow you to take Lady Stark for a fool when you try to coddle her into bowing to that mad woman.”

“A woman who has dragons,” Tyrion says, and Sansa takes notice of how he doesn’t refute Jaime’s insult. “Dragons that have burned and destroyed the Others. Dragons that can rain fire down on –“

“Are these your threats, Lord Tyrion, or are these the words your queen has put in your mouth?” she asks coldly, cutting him off. His words let loose the anger she’s been harboring and now there is no stopping it. “Tell me, would you really stand by and watch her burn the whole North all because we do not give her what she wants? It sounds an awful lot like a king who once burned people alive for his own entertainment. What say you, Ser Jaime?”

“Burning innocents?” Jaime pretends to be deep in thought. “Why yes, my lady. It does resemble someone I’ve had the misfortune of serving… but also the honor of killing.”

Tyrion’s eyes widen at the insinuation. “I would shut my mouth if I were you, brother,” he hisses at him. “What you’re saying is treason against the queen, and you know as well as I what the punishment for that is.”

Before Jaime can utter a retort, Sansa raises a hand to stop him. “Ser Jaime’s words may have been impertinent, and for that I apologize. I can assure you that I will discuss it with him later,” she cuts in though there is no tinge of remorse or regret in her voice. “But I fail to see how it is treason. We are in the North, Lord Tyrion, and the North knows no queen.”

“Perhaps it is time that it should,” the Imp says carefully. It is the closest he’s come to directly saying it.

“On that I agree with you,” his brother pipes up.

“ _Jaime._ ” Sansa reproaches and shoots her guard a warning glare, forcing him into silence, before turning back to Tyrion. “Spare me the trouble, my lord, and be blunt with what it is you wish to say. I have neither the time nor the patience to sift through your subtle hints and banter, colorful as they may be.”

Tyrion lets out a deep exhale in surrender. He looks at her with what she thinks are apologetic eyes, but she cares not about what he feels if his actions and words say something else. “My queen wants you to bend the knee,” he says finally. “Your brother the king –“

“Cousin.”

“I apologize, your cousin,” he concedes. “He has ruled the North with the help of your counsel, and everyone knows it. While he battled White Walkers to save the seven kingdoms, you battled the wrath of winter to keep your people alive. It is no secret that the Northerners look up to you as much as they do Jon Snow. And if the Lady of Winterfell were to swear fealty to Queen Daenerys, the rest of the North will surely follow. No blood need be shed.”

What follows next is complete silence from the three people in the room, with only the sound of men training and walking about down in the yard filling the void. Tyrion anxiously waits for her response and so does his brother. Sansa eyes the younger Lannister with an unreadable expression, content to let him simmer in his own nerves until it suits her satisfaction for she already knows her reply.

Minutes pass and soon they hear the distant and all too familiar sound of Rhaegal and Drogon shrieking. Sansa knows that Daenerys is there as she always is every time the walls of Winterfell bore her. What she doesn’t know is whether or not Jon is there as well. She knows he’s formed a bond with Rhaegal and that the dragon often seeks his company more so than Daenerys herself much to Ghost’s displeasure.

She knows that the direwolf merely tolerates the Targaryen queen because of his master. She’s felt how much the white beast resents it when Jon is forced to leave him behind when he goes to his dragon. It had given her comfort in the times when she, too, would be left behind in the keep to manage affairs in his stead when he had to fly off with his aunt to assess a battle plan.

Thinking of Ghost and how he would bare his fangs and let out a growl when he got near the dragons only reinforces her belief that the North and her wolves must never again submit to the South.

“What makes you think that I would ever consider bending the knee to her, Lord Tyrion?” she asks in a voice that is both curious and detached.

It seems that the Imp has prepared to answer such a question because his response is almost immediate and somewhat rehearsed.

“You care deeply for your people, my lady. It’s a trait you share with your father as well as your cousin,” he answers. “I know the last thing you want is for them to suffer through yet another war. We’ve seen enough bloodshed in our lifetime, don’t you think?”

“Aye,” she says coldly. “But I also think I’ve seen enough of mad rulers.”

“My lady, I can assure you that Daenerys is no mad queen. She –“

“You are a fool, my lord, if you do not see it for I surely can,” she cuts in, her eyes flashing with anger she doesn’t trouble herself concealing. “How her eyes burn with greed and lust for things she has no right to desire, how she practically shivers with delight when people are on their knees, trembling in fear before her… how she has to keep herself from smiling when her dragons rain fire down on lords who refuse to bow to her.”

 At the last part, Tyrion’s eyes widen in surprise. “How –“

“How would I know?” Sansa asks as she watches the man before her rack his brain, trying to come up with a list of people who were present at the time. “Do not fret, my lord. There is no traitor in your camp. No one would dare risk being burned by your queen’s dragons.”

“Then wh-“

“It was Theon Greyjoy who whispered it in my ear.” She pauses, her mind drifting once more to the only person who knew exactly what true suffering is. “You see, Theon and I know more about madness and cruelty than most. We’ve seen it with our own eyes, felt it on our own flesh and bones, tasted in on our tongue. So you shouldn’t be surprised to know that he did not want to be ruled by yet another monster.”

“Queen Daenerys is not Ramsay Bolton,” he argues back.

But his statement does nothing to deter her. “Aye, she is not. But her dragons are, and anyone who has monsters for _children_ is not fit to rule. You should know that by now, my lord, considering your sister is exactly the same way,” she says, casting a glance at Jaime before facing Tyrion once more.

At the mention of his former lover, Jaime clenches his fists and tightens his jaw, but otherwise remains silent.

“Daenerys Targaryen may have started off fighting for justice, but now she claims it is her _birthright_ that makes the North hers for the taking when Eddard Stark still has three children who are alive and well,” she pauses. “She freed slaves where she came from, did she not?”

“I… yes,” Tyrion stammers.

“Does she not realize that her ancestors were the ones who enslaved the North to the South? Has anyone ever told this woman what _her_ father did to _my_ grandfather and uncle? Does she not know that it was the Starks who ruled the North until the dragons took it from them? Where is the North’s justice? Where is _our_ birthright?” she asks heatedly.

Before he can answer, she rages on. “The first time I met your Targaryen queen, I saw in her the same propensity for madness that Ramsay had, that Joffrey had, that Cersei still has,” she bites out. “The only difference between her and them is that she pretends she fights for a noble cause. At least they never pretended to be other than what they are. But _your_ queen… she thinks she’s come to save Westeros when, really, she’s come to damn us all to blood and fire.”

The Lannister sitting before her takes a sip of his wine before speaking in a cautious voice. “Might I remind you, my lady, that the battle against the White Walkers would’ve been lost if it weren’t for her.”

“Do not speak as if the Night King would’ve been content with just destroying the North. Might I remind _you_ , my lord, that had the battle been lost, death would have come for us all no matter which of the seven kingdoms you are from,” she says through gritted teeth. “She confuses me, this queen of yours. She claims this kingdom hers, and yet when her kingdom needs protection, she requires payment before agreeing to do her duty. If saving her land and her people is a task so burdensome and extraneous that she demands a reward for it, what does that say about your queen?”

“I care not what her demands are or what she thinks she deserves,” she adds. “The North will never be hers.”

Tyrion takes a deep breath. “My lady… _Sansa_ , I beseech you to reconsider –“

“I never saw you as my husband,” she says suddenly. “I wanted to die than to be your wife. I thought the gods were punishing me when I found out I was to wed you. But after… after, I realized it for what it was – it was a kindness. You treated me better than anyone there. But I never saw you as my husband, Lord Tyrion. I did, however, think you a friend. And I often thought of you after we parted ways.”

She rises from her chair then. “I expected more from you, my lord. You disappoint me and insult me by thinking I ought to kneel to her when you know very well that everything I’ve ever done since King’s Landing has been to save myself from ever kneeling to anyone whose only wish is to use me and my people.”

“You might be sending your people to their deaths if you refuse,” Tyrion pleads.

But Sansa remains unaffected by the starkness of his words. “That may be true, but I send them to their deaths with their freedom and honor. If I bend the knee, I send them to the mercy of dragons. And you should know by now that the North thinks that a much crueler fate.”

Without waiting for a response, she turns around to leave the room. It’s when she is already by the door that Tyrion makes his final attempt.

“And what if King Jon decides the North must bend the knee with or without your approval? Daenerys may not be your queen, but he is your king. Will you commit treason against him?” he asks, genuinely curious. His voice doesn’t carry the haughtiness that it probably should since there is no use skirting around the rumors any longer.

Slowly, she turns around to face the man she begrudgingly respects. “Good day, Lord Tyrion,” she says before leaving the room with Jaime right behind her.

“What are you going to do?” Jaime mutters when they are far enough away.

“Bran,” she answers as she quickens her stride to her brother’s room, prompting Jaime to match her pace. “I need to speak with Bran.”

 

* * *

 

She is lying in her bed, relishing the quiet she so rarely has nowadays, when the door swings open and her sister walks in.

“Jon’s been asking about you,” Arya says as she flops down face first to the space beside her. “And so has _she_.”

Even though her voice is muffled in the sheets, the way her sister spits out that last word with derision is still very much obvious, and it causes Sansa to smile. She and Arya may still have a world of differences between them, but she takes comfort in the fact that they are on the same side where it truly counts.

It didn’t always feel that way.

“I hated you,” Arya had said softly to her the day of their reunion. She’d returned to Winterfell earlier that morning, and while the reunion was marked with a fierce embrace, it was obvious they didn’t know what to say to each other after. It had only been that night as they sat quietly before the hearth in her chamber that the fog of silence lifted between them.

“I hated me too,” Sansa had echoed as she stared into the fire. And then she turned to look at her sister, eyes filled with unshed tears that stubbornly refuse to spill.

“Father should have told us the truth,” Arya had said instead.

Sansa had stared at her. “He was trying to keep us safe.”

Arya had met her gaze. “And look what happened. It killed him,” her sister had said in a tone laden with defensiveness, her whole posture suddenly tense.

She couldn’t meet her eyes then, looking back at the fire. “I told Cersei Lannister about Father’s plans to leave King’s Landing,” she’d rasped. “It was me, Arya. I killed Father.”

It’s been almost a year since that night, but there are times when Sansa can still vividly feel the sting on her cheek and hear the almost thunderous sound of a whack when Arya slapped her on the face. They didn’t speak at all in the following weeks.

It took Bran’s arrival to ease the fury her sister felt toward her. Sansa was taken completely by surprise at first when Arya suddenly talked – or, more accurately, grumbled – to her the day after she saw her follow Bran to his chamber where they talked well into the night. But when their brother revealed to her his gift of greensight, Sansa began to make sense of Arya’s change of heart.

“You had no right to tell her,” Sansa had said to Bran.

Very calmly, he’d responded, “I didn’t tell her anything you wouldn’t want anyone to know, Sansa. I just told her the truth – that regardless of whatever it is you think you’ve done, it wouldn’t have changed the outcome.”

She’d snorted at that. “I know her, Bran. That wouldn’t have stopped her from hating me.” _Because it surely doesn’t stop me from doing the same._ “And I can see the way she looks at me. It’s not so different from the way I am looked upon by the men and women who served under Ramsay.”

He hadn’t been able to say anything to that, only looked at her with sorrow in his eyes that told her his greensight had exposed every scar, mark and filth she’d so desperately wanted to keep hidden.

“I’d rather take your fury than your pity,” she’d said to her the day after she’d spoken with their brother. “You have every right to hate me for what I did. Don’t let my – ”

“Not everything is about you, you know,” Arya had shot back, startling her.

And that had been the end of that. Sansa hadn’t dared broach the subject with her again even though there had been times when she could feel Arya’s concerned gaze on her on the mornings after the worst of her nightmares plagued her or when Arya began to show up beside her with sword in hand whenever men, whether they be lords or soldiers or workers, approached her.

“Jon wants to talk to you,” Arya says now in lieu of her silence, pulling her back to the present.

 _I’m sure he does,_ she wants to retort. It doesn’t escape her notice that while he spends more and more time with Daenerys, often at the dragon queen’s behest, he does so sneaking careful gazes in her direction. She, however, refuses to let him or anyone else know she’s aware of it. If the King in the North wants the Lady of Winterfell’s attention, he must do more than spare her brooding looks.

“If he wants to talk to me, he knows where to find me.” She makes sure to keep her voice light and casual.

“You know Jon. He won’t be the one to approach you first. He’s probably afraid you would throw your boot at him or something,” she quips.

Sansa doesn’t laugh. “He is king, Arya,” she says seriously. “He must learn how to act like it.”

“Will you tell me what’s happened between you two?” Arya suddenly asks, giving her a hard stare. “He wasn’t here when I came back, but I’m not deaf. Everyone talks about both of you, ruling together and always seeking each other’s counsel. I didn’t believe it at first to be honest. You’ve never given him the time of day before, never wanted to be seen with the bastard.”

She cringes as she always does whenever she’s reminded of the stupid and naïve girl she once was. It hurts her, feeling that everything she’s gone through and everything she’s done make no difference to how she is perceived and how she is remembered by. One way or another, it still always come back to that.

And then her sister’s face softens. “And then Bran told me about Ramsay,” she says softly. It’s the first time she acknowledges what Bran had spoken to her about. “And how you went to the Wall to find Jon, and then the battle for Winterfell. And then Jon came back from Dragonstone and I saw. You trusted him perhaps more than you trust anyone else here. Tell me what ruined that,” she tells her almost pleadingly.

Sansa is caught off-guard with her sister’s most honest request yet. Arya is smarter than most give her credit for. Arya knows that this matter with Daenerys isn’t enough to explain why she refuses to be alone with their cousin. She and Jon have had countless of disagreements and fights before, but that has never stopped her from seeking him out. On the contrary, it’s during their moments of dispute that Sansa can always be found in Jon’s solar, either berating him or pleading her case.

For a brief second, she considers lying to her sister. No one is as much an expert at lies, half-truths and pretty words like her. But Arya is her sister, and she deserves none of those.

“No,” she says softly. She will not lie, she decides, but she will not bare her soul either, not when she herself has yet to make sense of the ocean of emotions raging inside her. “I will not.”

“Sansa –“

“You must go to supper now, Arya. I am sure they are waiting for you,” she says evenly. “Tell the king I wish to speak with him on the morrow.”

The disappointment that is written across Arya’s face melts away as the words sink in and is replaced with optimism. “Truly? You will finally speak with him?” Arya asks, and Sansa’s heart nearly breaks all over again at the hopeful look her sister is giving her. Underneath the hard and deadly exterior, Arya is still a girl who holds on to hope.

“Truly.”

Satisfied with what she hears, Arya smiles and makes her way out of the room. When the door clicks shut, Sansa counts to one hundred before she gets up and puts on her warmest dress and cloak.

“Brienne,” she calls for her sworn shield soon after she’s ready.

Immediately, her door creaks open, and her knight walks in, waiting.

“Jon and Daenerys?”

“At the Great Hall, my lady.”

“Are the horses ready?” she asks.

Brienne nods. “Jaime and Pod are with them now.”

“How about –“

“He’s outside your door as we speak.”

“And no one suspects anything?”

“Not a soul.”

Nodding, Sansa smoothes the front of her dress. She is nervous and afraid, but there is no other option. From the tips of her auburn hair to the toes of her feet, she knows she must do this. The North depends on her, and she will not fail them the way she failed her family.

She takes a deep breath for courage. “Then we must make haste,” she says as she moves to exit her chamber.

Once outside, she turns to face the tall and hulking figure that stands silently by her door. “You’ll make sure no one enters?” she asks.

“Aye. Not even the dragon queen,” he answers gruffly.

“Thank you,” Sansa says, eyes full of gratitude to the man who once tried to save her when she was still a little bird in her gilded cage, to the man who didn’t need to offer his sword to anyone but still chose to do so for her.

He doesn’t smile back, but his eyes soften a fraction. “Go on now, little wolf,” Sandor says.

It is when the pair makes their way through the secret passageways of Winterfell when Brienne breaks the silence. “Are you sure this will work, my lady?” she murmurs.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Sansa answers, “No, but it is the only chance the North has.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a conversation, an interrogation, and a fight. And in all three, the Lady of Winterfell has the last word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My initial hope for this story is to have it completely done by the time Season 7 airs since I've been working on this for the past two months and have already gotten the entire storyline plotted out. Obviously, that's not going to happen anymore. I'm also bummed to say that it might take a while (not too long, promise) before I post the next chapters because my job and my need for a proper amount of sleep only allow me at most an hour or two to work on this every day.
> 
> But anyway, a massive thank you again to each and every one of you for taking the time to read this! :)

She wakes before the sun begins to rise. Her body and mind are terribly exhausted from last night, and they scream at her, begging her to give them more rest. But she pays no heed to their cry and sits up, her head throbbing as she leans back against the headboard.

Closing her eyes, she thinks about the plan she’s come up with. Her excursion beyond the Wolfswood last night had proven the task ahead of her to be much harder than she hoped it would be. It was risky and utterly dangerous, but risky and dangerous have long done nothing to stop her from doing what needs to be done. Besides, the question that lingers in her mind now is not whether or not she can do it. She knows she can. It’s the matter of whether or not she can do it in time that is her concern.

It’s the matter of whether or not she will be able to go through with it when the time comes that is her concern.

Because she is not as cold and unfeeling as she makes herself out to be. She knows that if she does this, the North will gain its freedom and she will have righted all the wrongs she’s ever done to her family name. But in exchange, she might lose the one thing dearest to her which, ironically, is the only thing she can afford to lose.  

She thinks of him now, and then as if on instinct her heart begins to beat rapidly. She wills it to slow down, but it doesn’t work. Every beat of her heart, his name echoes in chorus. 

_Jon. Jon. Jon. Jon._

She’d told Arya last night that she will speak with him today. Though she did not specify the time of day, it will not surprise her if he comes knocking on her door before the castle wakes. He’s done it before. Curling her hands tight, she refuses to dwell any further on what happened then.

For a second, she is tempted to disappear into herself. Maybe she can fly over Wintertown and watch as it wakes from its slumber. It has always calmed her – the flying, the feel of the Northern winds between wings that aren’t hers. But most of all, she looks for that sensation, that moment when she is detached from the emotions of her heart, that moment when she is most free.

And then another idea comes to her. Perhaps she can visit Ghost. Unlike some nights, the beast hadn’t slept in her chamber last night, likely because she hadn’t returned until hours after midnight. And when he isn’t with her, he is with his master. Perhaps if she can just check on _him_ … no. She stops herself.

Enticing as it may be, she decides against it. Her mind is still tired from last night, and she knows it is dangerous to do anything with a weak mind. She doesn’t want to get lost again.

Sighing, she slowly rises to her feet and makes her way to her wardrobe. She’s long since refused having a handmaiden, trusting no one with her body. After she puts on a simple gown of deep grey, she sits in front of the looking glass and arranges her hair in a simple loose braid that falls over her right shoulder, framing her face. Clasping her cloak around her shoulders, she opens the door to her chamber. When she sees who’s guarding her rooms, she smiles.

“Bit too early for a walk, don’t you think?” The Hound asks.

“It is,” she replies casually, giving him a knowing glance.

Back when she was in King’s Landing, she used to find the man unnerving. He never treated her cruelly but never respectfully either. He still hasn’t changed, but she has. She now believes him when he says he will protect her. But unlike Brienne or Jaime, he also doesn’t argue with her when she wants to be left alone for awhile.

“Just come back before it’s time to break fast, aye? I don’t want the Kingslayer or the wench screaming in my ear if they find out I let you off again,” he says gruffly, not worried in the slightest.

She smiles at him before pulling up the hood of her cloak to cover her head.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s in moments like this when she feels her love for the North the strongest, when she is surrounded by white with only glimpses of green, when the cold does not lash at her skin but caresses it tenderly like the gentle waters kissing the shore, when the silence does not mean death but peace. It’s almost as though she comes most alive when the rest of the North sleeps.

She is seated on a large stump by the heart tree, hands clasped over her lap, her eyes closed in prayer. Yet it isn’t the gods she prays to, but to her family. She prays to her father, her mother and her lost brothers, asking them to give her the strength and the wisdom to protect the family she has left. She imagines this is why her father spent so much of his time here, asking the gods for guidance when there is nowhere else to seek it from.

Though the winter is finally receding and making way for spring, she knows that the future may be just as dark as it was before. The Battle for the Dawn has been won, but the dawn has brought with it more ashes than sunlight. The Others are no more, but the dragons are stronger than ever.

Dragons. She thinks back to the time Jon convinced her to meet Rhaegal.

“It’s like he’s bonded to me, Sansa,” he’d said. “Like Ghost.”

Sansa had huffed in annoyance then, insulted on behalf of his direwolf. She’d kept her mouth shut, however, accepting almost bitterly that Jon was as much a Targaryen as he was a Stark.

“And you’re certain your dragon will not eat me?” she’d asked as she eyed the winged beast. “Brienne will not be happy with you if she finds out her lady has been eaten by your dragon.”

He’d cracked a smile then, and her annoyance had melted away. “He won’t eat you, I swear it. He might like you even.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Rhaegal can sense what I feel, I think,” he’d reassured.

Her heart had skipped a beat at his words as she’d turned slightly to sneak a glance at his face. She hadn’t known if he was aware of the implications of his words. But just as quickly, she’d chastised herself for even entertaining the idea that what he said implied anything else.

He’d been mostly right anyway. When they had stood in front of the dragon, Rhaegal had simply nudged her hip with its head, the heat of its scales reaching all the way to her skin, before it rested its head on the ground once more to resume its slumber.

“I told you he’d take to you,” Jon had said with a gentle smile as they walked away from the creature.

She’d raised a brow at him. “That was hardly it,” she’d said. “Besides, he is still no wolf.”

His face had sobered abruptly. “Nor am I.”

Seemingly not in her own volition, she stops walking and grabs a hold of his wrist, stopping him as well. When he turns to look at her with a surprised expression, she immediately lets go. She’s never initiated physical contact with him since his first return to Winterfell with Daenerys and her armies.

“Do you remember what I said the morning after we took Winterfell?” she’d asked.

He’d remained quiet, but the way his face softened had been all the answer she needed.

“I meant it then, and I mean it now,” she’d said. Turning off to the side, she’d whispered almost wistfully, “You are a Stark, Jon. No one is more aware of that fact than I.”

When she’d looked at him again, there’d been a peculiar expression on his face, somewhere between confusion and hope. She hadn’t known what to make of it, really, but the way he’d stared at her flustered her. Before he could say anything else, she’d told him they ought to head back, ending that line of conversation.

There are times when she finds herself thinking about that particular memory. Knowing what she does now, she can’t help but torture herself with the idea that maybe she would’ve been able to have more moments with him had she just told him then and there how she felt. If only she’d known then what that expression of his meant for she surely knows what it does now.

As if on cue, she hears the soft crunch of footsteps behind her. And much like it did that day, her heart skips a beat. There is no need for her to turn around – she already knows it’s him. There is only one other person in Winterfell who visits this place at this hour, and it shouldn’t surprise her that he has sought her out here for they’ve spent countless moments sitting side by side on the very same spot she sits on now. Maybe, she thinks, this is what she’s planned on all along. He may have plenty of admirable skills, but she knows patience has never really been one of them.

“Sansa.”

She hears him whisper her name so softly that she thinks she wouldn’t have heard it had the winds not carried his voice to her. She isn’t fooling herself though; her mind tells her she would’ve heard it because she knows his voice, is attuned to it, yearns for it like the Southerners here yearn for the warmth of a hearth.

For a second, she considers pretending she doesn’t hear him but decides against it. _He deserves better from me,_ half of her thinks. The other half, however, simply wants to see him.

Taking a deep breath, she turns to face him. And then as soon as she sees his face, it’s like the snow stops falling and everything freezes. He is all she sees now. He is all she breathes even though he’s standing a dozen steps away from her. In this moment, he is her everything.

But even just looking at him now makes the pieces of her heart come back together only for them to fall apart again. Because she’s learned to read faces, most especially his. And on his face, plain as day and clear as the summer skies of her youth, is the kind of desperation she knows would mirror her own completely if she takes off the mask she’s wearing now.

Just once she wants to be weak, she wants to let herself fall apart. She imagines what it would be like. She pictures herself stumbling torward him as tears begin to fall from her eyes, but her knees never hit the ground because in an instant he is there, wrapping her arms around her in an embrace that feels like home more than Winterfell ever does. He presses his lips on her forehead before moving to her eyelids, tasting the salt of her tears. And then he buries his head in her neck, whispering soft words onto her skin and running his fingers through her hair, as she sobs against his chest.

Instead, she smiles.

“Jon.”

“I saw you leave the keep without a guard. I wanted to make sure you’d be safe,” he says as though that is his only reason for being here.

“I am safe within our walls, Jon,” she tells him gently, allowing herself to receive his concern.

He shakes his head. “Your steward Henrik, he told me the castle was attacked by wights during the battle.”

Try as he might, he can’t keep the accusatory tone off his voice. And while she feels a flare of annoyance because of it, she understands. She never mentioned anything about the incident in her letters to him.

In truth, when she thinks back on that night when a small army of the undead came upon Winterfell, it isn’t the wights she remembers. It’s rough hands on her body, painfully squeezing her breasts before forcing her legs apart. It’s the heavy breaths on her neck, the whispered and desperate commands in her ear to fuck him. It’s the cold wall scraping her bare back, the feeling of blood oozing out from the cuts, and the scream that gurgles in her throat.

It’s the blood on her face. On her hands. On her neck. On her chest. On her stomach.

In truth, the wights had saved her. The ringing of the alarm bells had been the distraction she needed. If they’d made their presence known any later, the blood would’ve been hers.

She stops that train of thought at once before it sucks her in. He is not here anymore. Jon is.

“There were only few of them and they were defeated easily enough,” she says in a confident tone that doesn’t at all betray the kind of thoughts she was having only seconds ago. “No lives were lost, I assure you.”

He flinches at her words and, for a moment, she doesn’t understand why. And then she cringes and curses herself for her callousness. Since his return, she’s done nothing but see to the well-being of the Northmen in her keep. But all the Northmen’s king has gotten from her is a cold shoulder.

She takes one small step forward. “How are you?”

Her question is met with a blank, almost confused stare as if he’s never been asked such thing before. It may very well be true. Since his return, he’s been showered with praise and gratitude for his heroism and bravery in the battle. But no one ever asks the King how he is feeling. They all just assume he basks in his victory as much as they do regardless of his usual morose disposition.

But she knows better.

“I haven’t told you,” she speaks again when he doesn’t say anything. “But I am…your people are happy you’ve returned safely.”

“Many others did not,” he says, his voice gruff.

“Aye. But you have,” she says. But she sees how useless her words are, sees it clearly on the broken expression on his face, and before she knows it, she’s taking another step closer to him, and another. “I’m glad you’ve come back, Jon.”

It does the trick. He looks at her for a moment before his lips curve slightly upward in a broken smile. “I promised you I would, did I not?”

His response suddenly brings her crashing back down to the reality they are in, and she halts in her tracks. He did promise to come back, but then again he hasn’t really _truly_ fulfilled his vow to her, has he?

He notices her hesitation and realizes what he has said. Immediately, his smile falls, and he looks down. There is only silence then, neither wanting to speak on whatever it is they both came here to talk about. Perhaps this is also what they’ve wanted all along – to avoid saying it out in the open, to keep the sense of finality at bay and prolong this state of limbo wherein they both get to believe whatever it is they wish to believe about the other in the false hope that what they believe couldn’t be worse than the truth. It’s far easier to assume than to know anyway.

“Sansa.”

Her eyes snap to him and she finds those dark grey eyes of his locked on hers. His shoulders sag as he rubs both hands over his face. He lets out a soft sigh even though it seems like his whole body screams exhaustion.

“I’ve missed you,” he suddenly says, dropping his arms back to his side.

It’s a slap and an embrace all at once. It’s a ridicule to her most hidden hopes and a tender caress to her cold and weary heart. He’s never said that to her before.

“Don’t say that,” she says, wanting to sound self-assured and commanding yet coming out small and pleading.

Now it is his turn to take a step forward. “Sansa, I –“

“Little wolf.”

Sansa looks behind Jon and sees her guard approaching, and she’s nothing but grateful for his arrival. _It’s too much,_ she feels, _it’s all too much._

“Yes, Sandor?”

“Daenerys is to hold a council meeting in an hour to discuss Littlefinger’s… _disappearance_. She requests your presence,” he says before turning his attention to Jon. “As well as yours… Your Grace.”

“Very well,” she says as she walks toward both men.

“Sansa,” Jon whispers before she can completely pass him.

She stops and turns to him. “I have to get ready, Jon,” she says gently. “I will see you in the council chamber.”

He nods stiffly.

She bows her head, then walks to Sandor and leaves the King behind. Her face is one of serenity, but everything else within her is tempestuous.

 

* * *

 

 

“He’s dead, Your Grace,” she says in a steady voice.

“Dead,” Daenerys repeats. “Did he perish in the attack of the wights?”

She lays her hands in front of her, right hand over left like a proper lady. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“I find that hard to believe. Did he not have men guarding him?”

“He did, Your Grace.”

“Then how could the wights have killed him?” the dragon queen asks. Her voice is even and steady, but the soundless tapping of her fingers on the wooden table before her betrays her impatience.

She can hear the clink of Sandor’s armor as he slowly makes his way to stand closer to her. Brienne had insisted on being the one to accompany her, but she’d chosen Sandor instead for this very reason. Of course Daenerys would eventually ask about Littlefinger. It doesn’t surprise her that the man had made himself a person of interest to the Queen, though up to what extent he’d never told her. It’s enough, however, to make her hold a council with the sole purpose of discussing his whereabouts.

“The wights did not kill him, Your Grace,” she begins as soon as she feels Sandor’s presence behind her. “I did.”

The people in the room gasp. Daenerys leans towards Tyrion, listening intently to his whispers. There are others there, some of whom are more familiar to her than the rest, and Sansa takes advantage of the commotion to scan their faces.

Beside Tyrion, who is seated on Daenerys’ right, is Lord Varys with that same detached and almost annoying mask he always wears. Standing behind the dragon queen is Missandei, the slave she freed who, Sansa thinks, has absolutely no significance but to act like a slave still, only this time she serves a master with a cunt and not a cock. Standing next to her are the commanders of her army, Greyworm, and Jorah Mormont. The sight of the latter makes her clench her jaw. _You would spit on your own House for a chance to fuck your queen when it’s clear she would rather fuck her handmaiden than you,_ she wants to tell him.

She looks to Varys’ right. There is Lady Olenna Tyrell who looks at her with a somewhat proud smile – whether the old woman is proud of her for killing the only person who could incriminate her for Joffrey’s murder or proud of her for simply being able to kill, she doesn’t know. Ellaria Sand and Asha Greyjoy sit next to Lady Tyrell, both wearing an expression of amusement and interest.

 _These women do not hate me,_ Sansa thinks. _They’ve killed men who deserved death far less than Baelish. They are on her side because they had no other choice. But I can give them a choice._

Her eyes shift to the opposite side of the room. To the left of Daenerys is the King in the North with Ser Davos and Tormund standing behind him. Jon Snow is the only one who remains silent, his attentive eyes fixed on her and her alone, unrelenting in its gaze.

“You may not know this, Lady Stark, but Lord Baelish has sworn his as well as the Vale’s allegiance to me,” Daenerys speaks again, quieting the room once more. “So you see, a crime against him is a crime against me.”

She sees Jon whip his head around to face his aunt, but Sansa decides then and there that she will not allow him to speak up for her. She keeps her mask composed when she says, “If that is the case, will his crimes against me, against the North, against the Vale and the rest of Westeros be your crimes as well, Your Grace?”

There is a mixture of shock, confusion and anger in the dragon queen’s eyes.

“I did not murder Petyr Baelish,” she says before the woman can say anything else. “I simply delivered justice to the man responsible for bringing the whole Seven Kingdoms to war.”

“And what are his crimes that you speak of?” Daenerys asks coolly. “His crimes against Westeros, you say?”

“He had Jon Arryn poisoned with the help of my aunt whom he also killed,” she answers. “Tears of Lys, he told me, was the poison he used.”

Olenna Tyrell clears her throat. “You’re saying he openly admitted this to you and no one else?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And why would he do such a thing?” Ser Jorah asks, cleary unconvinced.

Sansa gives him a cold stare. “Men will do anything for the woman they love… as I’m sure you can attest to, Ser Jorah.”

The dragon queen ignores her slight against him. “So Baelish loved you then?”

“He loved my mother, Your Grace. Not me. I just look like her,” she says flatly.

Daenerys’ face is inscrutable as she gazes at her. And then after a moment’s silence, she speaks again. “And his other crimes?”

She makes sure to straighten her back as she takes hold of her skirts, clutching them as tightly as she can. “He was responsible for the arrest and death of my father, Lord Eddard Stark.”

A sharp intake of breath can be heard from Jon yet she doesn’t allow herself to look at him. She can’t possibly bear to meet the grey eyes of her father, not now.

“Sandor can testify to that,” she says, gesturing to the man who is beside her.

“Aye,” Sandor rumbles. “It was Baelish who orchestrated the ambush against Ned Stark.”

Jaime Lannister can testify to Littlefinger’s plotting too but his presence in this room will do more harm than good. Instead, she turns to the eunuch and says, “Isn’t that right, Lord Varys?”

All pairs of eyes turn to the Spider who looks uncharacteristically flustered at suddenly being the center of attention. But as their eyes meet, he composes himself and turns to his queen. “Lady Stark speaks true, Your Grace.”

Daenerys nods stiffly. “So you decide to take his life without trial?” she asks. “Your actions seem more like revenge than justice, Lady Sansa. Regardless of his crimes, you have no right to –“

“Mind your tongue,” Sandor growls behind her. “You know nothing of his crimes.”

The whole room plunges into silence, taken aback by the Hound’s outburst. When the dragon queen recovers from her shock, she narrows her eyes, seething with anger, to the man beside her. “You –“

“Forgive him, Your Grace, for his disrespect. He only means to defend my honor,” she says hastily as she takes a step forward. She inhales deeply and prepares herself to admit it out loud for the first time.

“I would’ve gladly given him a trial,” she begins, her eyes locked on Daenerys alone, “had he not forced himself on me.”

A second of silence. And then, “ _He raped you?”_

It can’t be helped now. His voice is furious, and when she looks at him, his face is even more so. She sees the fury that she’s only seen once before, when she’d been certain he would beat the life out of Ramsay with his bare fists.

“No, Your Grace. He tried… but no, he did not,” she assures Jon before turning to Daenerys once more. “He thought himself deserving of the love my mother never gave him, and he got tired of waiting. So he waited for me in my chamber and… well, he got what he deserved.”

“And what would that be?”

“A dagger to his heart,” she answers bluntly. _And his neck. And his stomach. And his face._

Daenerys purses her lips together. “And then what happened?” Tyrion asks gently.

She wants to sneer at her former husband for acting like she ought to be traumatized by the ordeal as though she was never married to Ramsay Bolton, as though she was never stripped naked and beaten before by his nephew, like she is still made of glass and porcelain and not steel and ice.

“Sandor came into my rooms not long after to inform me that wights were climbing our walls,” she says. “And then he assisted me in disposing Littlefinger’s body and burning it.”

“Why the secrecy?” the white-haired queen asks.

“It wasn’t done in secrecy, Your Grace. I sent a raven to Lord Yohn Royce the following day, informing him of the events that transpired,” she answers. “He, in turn, conferred with the other Vale lords and ladies, and they’ve all named him the new Lord Protector of the Vale.”

The queen quirks her brow at her. “And they were not at all upset with you for killing their lord?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Littlefinger wasn’t beloved by the people of the Vale, Your Grace. Not the ones he couldn’t buy with his coin, at least,” she says.

“Am I correct to assume then that the Vale lords feel… indebted to you for ridding them of Baelish?” The queen’s voice is laced with curiosity.

It’s a question that is meant to test her. That is certain. She considers the options laid out before her. She can say that the Vale lords do not hold her to any esteem. She can say that she has given no thought to how they see her as she is the Lady of Winterfell and not the Vale. She can say anything really, anything but the truth – that she has Sweetrobin wrapped around her delicate finger, that the Vale loved her when she had been Alayne Stone and even more so now that she’s Sansa Stark once more, that Yohn Royce will never raise arms against Eddard Stark’s daughter.

“No more than they feel indebted to you for ridding Westeros of the White Walkers, Your Grace,” she answers with a pretty smile.

Daenerys lets out a small huff of amusement. “I’ve always admired your honesty, Lady Sansa,” the queen says as she flashes her with a smile that is just as pretty.

Sansa doesn’t miss a beat. “And I’ve always admired your fiery spirit, Your Grace. Truly, the _South_ will be better off with you as its queen.”

Daenerys’ gaze hardens ever so slightly as the people around her, Varys and Tyrion more so than the rest, shift uncomfortably in their seats. Her eyes are drawn to Jon then who is looking at her with the most anxious expression, and it angers her.

_What use is your courage in battle when you have none of it at court?_

She doesn’t wait for anyone of them to speak because they are in Winterfell and _she_ is the Lady of Winterfell. They are in _her_ council room, and this is _her_ home. Sansa curtsies ever so elegantly. “Your Grace,” she bids before leaving them.

 

* * *

 

 

She is almost to the hall leading up to her chamber when he calls out her name. From the moment she stepped out the room, she’d known he’d come after her. It’s why she’s walked briskly, only nodding her head to the servants she meets instead of stopping to converse with them briefly as is her usual custom. But it appears it’s all been for naught.

Turning around to face him, she bows slightly. “Your Grace.”

“Jon, Sansa,” he says wearily. “Just Jon.”

“Jon,” she acquiesces because she’s decided it’s all she will allow him.

He releases a long sigh, and for a moment, doesn’t say anything. He simply lets his gaze roam over her face the way he used to do in the privacy of his solar, his whole feature softening, until her discomfort at being looked upon so intimately forces her to shift backward. It does the trick, snapping him out of his reverie.

“May I speak with you in private?” he asks, glancing at Sandor.

She proves herself wrong, it seems, for she finds herself acquiescing to yet another of his requests as she leads him to a secluded alcove nearby, hidden by an embroidered curtain that she herself made.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says as soon as she lets the curtain fall, hiding them from plain sight.

He doesn’t sound angry at all, just exhausted. But knowing that doesn’t deter her from tilting up her chin at him. “If I am the only one here who is brave enough to stand up to her, then I shall.”

“That wasn’t brave, Sansa,” he argues back, careful to keep his voice low. “That was foolish and careless and stupid. She could’ve easily ordered you to hang.”

“Or burn,” she pipes up sarcastically.

Without warning, Jon grabs her arm and pulls her closer to him. “Do you think this is some game still?” he hisses. “She could’ve killed you!”

It takes every ounce of control in her to keep her body from succumbing to fear. She swallows down the scream that seems to have lodged itself in her throat and glares at Jon. “Let. Go of me,” she bites out.

Immediately, he releases her as if she’s burned him. _But he can’t be burned, can he?_ His face morphs into that of shame as he takes a step back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you –“

“Would you have let her?” she asks, not letting him finish. “If she would’ve ordered my death, would you have let her?”

He reels back like she has just slapped him across the face. “I would never –“

“If Sandor wasn’t there, I would’ve been alone, Jon,” she says, her chest heaving with the ocean of emotions inside of her that are threatening to come out. “You sat there _beside_ her like you were one of her bloody council members and not the King of the North!” she spits out, pointing an accusing finger at him.

 “You forget, Sansa, that you were the one who told me I knew nothing of politics and diplomacy. You told me that it would be better for me to keep my mouth shut lest I offend our bannermen, did you not?” he says through gritted teeth. 

“Our bannermen, Jon! But not her, not some woman from across the Narrow Seas who wants to take our home!”

“Daenerys is not just some woman, Sansa. She is a queen in her own right, and you must accept that for all our sake, especially yours. You’re putting the whole North in danger when you intentionally provoke her.”

“ _Why do you defend her?”_ she almost yells, overcome by sheer frustration and anger.

“I am protecting you! You think that just because I do not attack her, I am defending her, but everything I’ve done since you came to me in Castle Black has been to protect _you_. And if you weren’t so blinded by your hatred and distrust and selfishness, you would see that!” he shoots back.

His words instantly drain the fight out of her. He’s never accused her like that before, and now she wonders if that’s all he sees when he looks at her. She doesn’t allow herself to fall for her own delusions anymore. She knows that she’s tainted, both by others and herself, that there’s no use trying to refute the truth he’s just said. But the idea of Jon realizing just how vile she’s become gives her pause.

It’s on the tip of her tongue, the same words she told him before the battle for Winterfell. _No one can protect anyone,_ she’d said. But that’s not so true anymore, is it? Jon has protected her. She wouldn’t be alive right now if he hasn’t.

The only sound that fills the silence that follows is their heavy breathing. Then Jon runs his scarred hand over his face, surprising her when he takes a step closer to her.

“Littlefinger...” he pauses. His grey eyes are bearing down at her.

“It’s no matter, Jon,” she says softly.

He shakes his head. “He hurt you.”

“And he’s dead for it." 

Slowly, hesitantly, he lays a hand on her shoulder. His eyes are locked on hers, silently asking for permission. When she makes no move to shrug it off, he slides it upward until he’s cupping the side of her neck, his thumb tracing her jaw.

"Sansa," he says in a pained whisper.

“Jon,” she murmurs back.

His gaze falls on her parted lips. Her heart is beating furiously against her chest, and when he leans closer to her, she’s certain it will explode. But somewhere in the distance, outside in the courtyard, there is suddenly the sound of swords clashing together, and immediately, they break apart.

“Why did you not tell me about him?” he asks eventually.

She takes a deep breath. “It was none of your concern,” she answers evenly.

In an instant, Sansa can feel the frustration in him once more. “His death is my concern, Sansa. His crimes are my concern. _You_ are my concern,” he says, voice heavy and raw. “I told you not to trust him.”

“And I did not,” she replies stiffly.

“Yet you let him stay –“

“Because we needed his men!” she says loudly. Lowering her voice, she adds, “Gods, have I not proven myself to you already? Do you think that just because you can wield a sword, men like Littlefinger wouldn’t be able to touch you? Had I gotten rid of him earlier on, the Vale would’ve been lost to us, and your army would’ve lost 5,000 able-bodied men.”

“You still should have told me what he did!”

“We should have told each other many things!”

If there is fire in his eyes then there is ice in hers. Breathing heavily, she waits until she has control of her emotions again before continuing in a low voice, “Don’t you dare tell me I’m the only one between us who has kept secrets from the other, Jon. You know as well as I that that’s not true.”

He visibly flinches at that. And before she completely leaves him in the alcove, he makes one last attempt to reach out to her.

“I am on your side, Sansa,” he says tiredly.

She sighs and, without even facing him, softly says, “You’re much too like Father to be on anyone’s side, Jon.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lady of Winterfell breaks her fast with the Dragon Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably going to say this every time I post a chapter since I don't respond to each and every comment, but thank you to everyone who's taking the time to read this. Know that your effort is much appreciated. :)
> 
> Someone tracked me down on Tumblr a week or two ago before I deleted my account which was a bit weird, I have to say. But anyway, in response to this person's lengthy message about how such and such plot lines are impossible because such and such events happened in the show, I just want to make it clear that whatever direction this story goes doesn't mean it's how I expect the show to go. Like everyone else, I have my opinions on how I want the show to unfold, but obviously what I want and what will happen are two completely separate things... which is basically why I'm writing this fic in the first place. So no, this fic isn't me predicting how the show is going to go or me saying this is how the show *should* go. This fic is me giving myself the outlet to have my own hopes for the show come true. That's all. So chill. :)

She stops in her tracks when she sees the only other person breaking her fast, and she instantly regrets bidding Pod to rest first before coming down to the hall. For a moment, she just looks at her. Even when doing such a mundane task like sipping porridge that looks like tasteless mush, Daenerys Targaryen makes it look so dignified and queenly.

After her interrogation yesterday, Sansa has yet to come face-to-face again with the dragon queen or even Jon for that matter. She’d spent the rest of the afternoon tending to the men who are still in serious condition.

For a brief second, she considers turning around and breaking her fast in her solar instead. Jon had been right in their argument – she’d been rash and careless, and she hates herself even more because she couldn’t help it. Seeing him at _her_ side had felt like a glimpse into the future Littlefinger had whispered in her ear, words she had rejected and scoffed at until they’d began to make sense.

“Jon would never agree to that,” she’d said when he had informed her about a conversation Daenerys had with Jon as their army marched further north toward their final battle with the Night King’s army.

The dragon queen hadn’t fully trusted Jon not to seek the iron throne after the war, especially not after finding out that he had a stronger claim than her as well as the support of the largest of all the Seven Kingdoms, as well as the Vale and the Riverlands through Sansa. Baelish had said that when Jon vowed once more that he had no intentions to sit on the iron throne, she’d told him to prove it… by giving up his crown and marrying her to secure his people’s loyalty.

Baelish had responded with an arrogant smirk. “Oh, but he will. And you know it to be true,” he’d said smoothly. “What was it that he did for the Night’s Watch? Betrayed that wilding lover of his for his brothers? He will agree to this as well. It is the _honorable_ thing to do after all. And though he has the blood of a dragon, Jon Snow is a Stark through and through like your Father. Even more so than you, my sweet.”

She’d only responded with stony silence to which he’d chuckled, taking it as a sign that he’d successfully proven his point. He’d taken her hand in his then lifted it to his lips, pressing a cold kiss to her knuckles.

“Jon Snow isn’t yours anymore, sweetling. He belongs to the dragon queen now,” he’d said, eyes gleaming.

Since Jon’s return, Littlefinger’s words have been a constant in her mind, lingering in the recesses where she purposely pays little mind to. But yesterday, seeing him sitting beside her like he was her consort had broken whatever barriers she’d erected to keep Baelish’s words away, causing them to come crashing down on her and reverting her back to the stupid girl that she was.

Sansa doesn’t want to repeat her blunder, and the surest way of doing that is by steering clear of the woman before her. But in the end, it’s Daenerys who makes the decision when she turns and casts her eyes in her direction.

“Good morning, Lady Stark. Would you care to join me?” the Targaryen queen asks, though Sansa knows it isn’t much a question as it is a command.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she answers ever politely as she goes to sit at the middle of the long table as opposed to her usual place at the head of it where Daenerys has taken it upon herself to sit.

For a stretch of time, neither says anything. They do not even spare a glance at the other, eyes only looking at the food in front of them. She uses the silence to gather her thoughts, to prepare an answer to whatever question or statement Daenerys will eventually say. This queen is unlike Cersei in that regard – Daenerys is unafraid to voice her own thoughts, and she expects nothing but honesty in return, not because she thinks people do not lie but because she thinks people _cannot_ lie to her. It’s the ultimate kind of fear, she supposes, the one mortals reserve for the gods alone, the one that makes them confess their gravest sins and darkest thoughts in a godswood or in a sept.

“Lady Stark, I’ve decided not to charge you for the murder of Petyr Baelish,” Daenerys suddenly says.

She looks at the Targaryen queen with a guarded expression. If the woman expects her to show gratitude, she will be sorely disappointed.

“I never trusted the man,” Daenerys adds. “And after hearing about what he attempted to do to you…” She pauses before facing her. “I’m aware that you do not think highly of me, but I will have you know that I would never tolerate such depravity among my subjects.”

Sansa’s only response is a nod. She’s heard of stories about the dragon queen ordering her Dothraki horde not to touch women and children as she conquered Essos. But she’s also heard of instances when that order wasn’t obeyed.

“I’ve learned quite a lot about you, Lady Stark,” the woman continues. “You might be pleased to know that Jon wasn’t very forthcoming in telling me stories about you. But I hope you don’t fault me for asking my advisors, some of whom you know. They’ve told me accounts from your time in King’s Landing to your unfortunate marriage to Ramsay Bol –“

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I do not wish to dwell on the past,” Sansa cuts in, making sure her voice does not betrays the anger she feels at being exposed so. She doesn’t look at her when she speaks, eyes staring straight ahead as she clasps her hands tightly together on her lap in an effort to tether her to the present. If this is the dragon queen’s way of alluding to her superiority, she will not be moved.

“Of course, I apologize if I’ve spoken out of turn,” Daenerys says after a seconds pause, her voice oddly softening which makes Sansa turn to look at her once more. “There is no one here but us, Lady Stark, so there is no need for formalities or diplomacies. I only meant that you yourself have endured more hardship than most and yet here you are – the Lady of Winterfell, one of the most trusted advisors of the King. Truly, I wish to commend you.”

 “Thank you, Your Grace,” she says uneasily.

Daenerys quirks a brow at her, and Sansa knows she expected more than the simple response she got. “We’ve never really had the chance to talk, Lady Stark, so I’m curious to know what your opinion is of me… Aside from my fiery spirit, that is,” she says with a smirk though her eyes hold no bitterness or contempt, just curiosity.

Sansa remains silent, undecided on a response. She scrutinizes everything about the dragon queen, from her posture and the movement of her hands to the deep lilac of her eyes and the tone of her voice, yet she can’t find anything that can be interpreted as disingenuous.

Throughout the time she’s observed this foreign queen, this is what makes Sansa distrust her the most. It is not her desire for the North nor is it her dragon children. Contrary to what Jon might think, Sansa can actually see the side of Daenerys Targaryen that is good and righteous. And it is for this very reason that she doesn’t trust her.

“The lords were screaming as they burned, and she couldn’t stop staring at them,” Theon told her one night when she visited him in his chamber. “There was glee in her eyes, Sansa. She took pleasure in their screams. Like… like…”

Sansa had taken his trembling hand then. “Shhh, Theon,” she’d said softly. “He’s gone. He can’t hurt us anymore.”

Since that night, every act of goodness she sees from the dragon queen only heightens her suspicion of her. She would always search her eyes for whatever it is that Theon had seen, and there would be moments, few and far between, when she would see it – glimpses that made her shiver, that made her remember Old Nan’s stories about the last Targaryen king who ruled Westeros.

_Mad King Aerys didn’t start out mad either._

Looking at Daenerys now, she sees nothing but sincerity. It reminds her of how Margaery Tyrell first approached her to seek her friendship. She was still a naïve and stupid girl then, desperate for any sort of kindness and affection from anyone willing to give it to her. Until now, she still holds some measure of affection for the late Rose of Highgarden, but she isn’t naïve or stupid any longer. What it was is clear to her now.

What _this_ is she isn’t quite certain yet.

“I think you are brave, Your Grace. And just. You will make a better queen than Cersei, I am sure,” she finally responds to fill in the silence.

That, at the very least, holds some truth. She may have said it in a distasteful manner yesterday, but she had truly meant it when she said the south would be better with her as its queen. Unlike Cersei and the ones before her who have used the crown for their own gain, Daenerys has done some good for the kingdom. She can freely admit that this white-haired queen has the sort of courage that very few people have, the kind that Jon undoubtedly has. A woman who leads an army of dragons and men against thousands of the undead deserves respect. And Sansa does respect her.

But the woman’s desire to take more than what she ought to take makes her Sansa’s enemy… an enemy she respects, but an enemy nonetheless. Sansa isn’t foolish enough to believe that the North would’ve been able to defeat the White Walkers without Daenerys, but she is foolish enough to believe that the North can and will survive on its own.

It doesn’t matter what Jon or anyone else says. She will make it so.

“We’re much alike, you and I. We know what it’s like to be used and lusted after because of our beauty, to be oppressed because of our sex, to be at the mercy of men. And we have outlived and outsmarted every single one of them,” Daenerys suddenly says, swirling her cup of wine before taking a sip. “All men must die, Lady Sansa. But we are not men.”

“Aye, Your Grace. We are not men. If we were, perhaps life would have been kinder,” she says unwittingly, surprising even herself by her honesty.

It’s a thought she has spent enough time thinking. There is no doubt in her mind that if she were born a man, she would be dead like Robb and Rickon. But on the nights when she is haunted by Joffrey and Ramsay and Littlefinger, she can’t help but think death a more appealing fate.

“We would have been stupid,” Daenerys responds with a chuckle.

It’s her laugh that gives Sansa pause. She can’t help but wonder at the direction their conversation has gone. There is still the distinct aloofness that is ever present between them, but there is also a certain warmth, and Sansa knows it cannot be coming from her since she is all ice and winter save for her Tully red hair. The woman before her, however, is of fire.

“Men only think with their cock,” Daenerys adds with a sly grin.

The thought comes to her immediately, so naturally and instinctively that she’s surprised this queen does not seem to think it. _I know one man who does not._

But instead of voicing it out loud, she settles for obliging Daenerys with whatever it is she’s playing at here. “Cersei Lannister once told me that a woman’s best weapon is the one between her legs.”

“She’s not mistaken,” Daenerys casually agrees before taking another sip from her cup.

 _Is that what you were thinking when you slept with him?_ She wants to ask her as the hands on her lap ball into fists. Until now, thinking about it still infuriates her. It doesn’t matter that Jon had told her it was merely a result of both of them being desperate for comfort – her for the death of Viserion and him for the shame he carried for feeling the way he did for someone he thought was his sister.

What makes her even more furious is that if it is indeed a weapon then it is one she will never be brave enough to wield. _If you have felt even the barest of touches of Ramsay Bolton’s hands, you would never think it a woman’s best weapon but her worst damned curse._

She is pulled back from her internal ranting, however, when Daenerys places her cup back on the wooden table and meets her gaze. Sansa can swear there is an ominous gleam in the queen’s amethyst eyes that makes her shudder in anxiety. In an instant, the warmth dissolves and the room grows cold.

“But then again, Cersei Lannister has never seen dragons,” Daenerys adds rather nonchalantly as if she is merely discussing the weather.

“No, Your Grace,” she says in a low voice. “No, she has not.”

“Well, soon she shall see them. And they will be the last thing she sees.”

 _There it is._ There is no mistaking the menace in her voice now. Unconsciously, her hands grasp at her thighs to keep her legs from shaking because surely, _surely_ she isn’t the only one who has seen this side of her.

Sansa has felt the desire for vengeance. She knows what it’s like to be out for blood and to have that craving sated. Until now she can still hear the screams of Ramsay Bolton as his hounds tore him apart, and until now it still brings a smile to her lips. She need only look at her hands to recall how Littlefinger’s blood felt on them; she need only close her eyes to see how his eyes bulged before the life seeped out of them, and she is proud of herself for having been responsible for it.

But she has never yearned to inflict pain and suffering on anyone who has never done the same to her. She has never craved for the torment and death of those who never craved for hers. It’s one of the very few things, she tells herself, that still makes her Ned Stark’s daughter and she will be damned if she loses that as well.

Cersei Lannister played a hand in her father’s death. She is the first person who took a stab at her soul when she ordered Lady’s death. But in this moment, knowing that there is nothing but dragonfire that awaits her, Sansa almost feels sorry for the lioness queen.

_Almost._

“Tell me, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys speaks again, “can I count on the North to fight alongside me to finally rid Westeros of this pretender queen?”

“The North is loyal to their King, Your Grace,” she says evenly. “If asked by their King to fight in the South, the Northerners would take up arms and fight without a second thought.”

There is a brief moment of silence wherein she thinks she has succeeded in satisfying Daenerys with her answer. But that is shattered when the dragon queen speaks again.

“And what if the King asks them to do more than take up arms?” She doesn’t say it out loud, but Sansa knows exactly what she means and Sansa hates her for having the audacity to ask.

Taking a deep breath in an effort to control her voice, she replies, “I am only one person, Your Grace. I can hardly speak for the whole North.”

Daenerys, however, is relentless. “Indulge me then, Lady Sansa, and speak for yourself. We’ve been honest with each other thus far, no?”

She reminds herself that she came here with every intention of avoiding another confrontation, but as she looks upon the almost smug expression on Daenerys’ face, she realizes that there is no use skirting around it when they both know what the other wants. She comes to the conclusion that there is enough respect between them to let their cards fall where they may without either of them resorting to slitting the other’s throat in their sleep.

Slowly, Sansa stands, hands clasped over her abdomen, before facing her. “I think you will be a great queen, Your Grace,” she calmly states. “But I am of the North and the North knows no king but the King in the North whose blood is a Stark.”

She doesn’t know what her own daring will result in, but the last thing she expects from the dragon queen is an almost patronizing smile as she nods her head. “Thank you, Lady Sansa.”

And in that moment, Sansa knows.

 

* * *

 

 

She waits patiently and silently as the rest of the Northern lords and ladies speak out against the continued presence of Daenerys Targaryen in the North.

“Your Grace, the longer she stays here, the more we will have to use up our own supplies to feed her and her army,” Lord Glover states. “We’re already short on food as it is.”

“Though it would have been worse had not Lady Stark advised us earlier on to build glass gardens in our keep,” Lord Cerwyn adds with a grateful nod to her direction as the rest of the people in attendance murmur their assent.

To his disappointment, Sansa merely nods in return. In another time, she would’ve beamed at being given credit for something she did. But now, she knows better. She knows men better. And if Lord Cerwyn thinks he will be granted her affections in exchange for his compliments, then he knows less than she does.

“My lords, my ladies, let us not forget that the battle would have been lost without Daenerys Targaryen and her army,” Jon says uncomfortably. “We cannot repay her help by forcing her out of the North.”

Amidst the grumbling and objections, Lady Lyanna stands. Unsurprisingly, everyone else quiets down and waits for the Lady of House Mormont to speak.

“Your Grace, I do not care if the dragon queen wishes to remain here longer,” she announces to the surprise of the other lords. “As long as she promises to leave the North and never step foot on our soil again.”

The whole hall is engulfed in deafening silence as they wait for the King in the North to respond. Sansa turns to Jon who is seated beside her and sees him waging a battle in his mind. She can see the exact moment he comes to a decision when his shoulders drop a little and she sees a hint of resignation in his somber eyes. Immediately, she is filled with dread so before he can open his mouth, she abruptly stands to call everyone’s attention.

“My lords, my ladies, perhaps we can afford to wait a little longer,” she begins in a pleasant voice, looking at each of the lords and ladies there as she does. “The Battle for the Dawn has just been won, and we deserve a brief respite from politics and strategies. Please, let us postpone this discussion at least until our men have all healed.”

As the men and women slowly file out of the room, she leaves Jon in the dais, not even sparing him a look, and moves toward Lyanna Mormont. Everyone knows the girl to be Jon’s most loyal supporter even after his parentage was exposed. But while the soldiers went to battle the living dead, Lyanna had stayed behind with the Lady of Winterfell to assist in keeping the North from succumbing to the harsh winter. Lyanna had witnessed firsthand the tremendous work and effort she put in keeping their people alive.

“You rule well, my lady,” Lyanna had told her once as they inspected their granaries and food stocks that weren’t, by any means, lacking.

Sansa had turned to her. It’s the first compliment she’d ever received from the Bear Lady. “Better than any Lannister or Bolton, I hope?” she’d asked, referring to the words they exchanged in their first meeting back at Bear Island when she and Jon were still looking for men to help defeat the Boltons.

Lyanna, surprisingly, had smirked, clearly remembering the moment as well. “My lady, after all that you have accomplished for the North, no one would ever think to call you any name but Stark.”

She likes to think that as the men formed bonds of brotherhood in a battlefield, she and the Lady Mormont have also established a camaraderie of sorts. There is trust between them now – trust that they will always put the interest of the North above anything and anyone else.

It is with this thought that Sansa approaches Lyanna Mormont.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa can still remember the first time it happened. It was two weeks after her wedding to Ramsay Bolton. At first, she thought it couldn’t get worse than what he did to her on their wedding night, and for a while it seemed that way. Every night he took her, she cried less and less until his painful thrusts were only met with her silence. He wanted her tears, she knew, so she did not give them to him.

It was only after he brought a small dagger with him one night that she realized how wrong she was. He didn’t want her tears. He wanted her screams. So on that night, he made her scream and scream and scream until her throat was raw and ragged. And even then, he did not stop.

She doesn’t know how long that night lasted. One moment, she was drowning in the excruciating pain of the tip of Ramsay’s dagger slicing through her skin from her shoulder to the base of her spine; and then in the next, she feels nothing but the wind and this overwhelming sense of freedom. The following morning, she woke up in her bed soaked with her own blood, unable to move and unable to speak. Needless to say, that did not stop Ramsay from showing up in her chamber again that night.

It took a few more visits from the Bolton bastard before she was able to control it, meaning her mind drifted off to fly the moment Ramsay pushed her down the bed. Sometimes, she would be abruptly dragged back to Winterfell whenever Ramsay, upset with her lack of response, would be even more ruthless and vile with her body. But that did not stop her. She didn’t know what she was or what she was doing, but she kept on doing it. She kept flying and falling, flying and falling.

She never said anything about it to anyone. Not to Theon or Brienne. Not even to Jon. She was already defiled enough as it is, she didn’t want to be seen as a pariah who could see through the eyes of birds as well.

It was only after Bran returned from the Wall and told her about his greensight that she found the courage to admit it.

 _You’re a warg,_ he’d simply said before he explained to her what it meant and how their Stark blood allows them to bond with their direwolves so intimately that they could warg into them.

She couldn’t help the pang of longing when she learned that had Lady still been alive, she would’ve had that with her. She also couldn’t help the shame that followed after. _I am a Stark without a direwolf who wargs into birds._

“Maybe I’m not a Stark after all,” she’d remarked casually, keeping the tone of her voice light so as not to betray her innermost thoughts.

“Don’t say that, Sansa. If it weren’t for you, our House would still be in ruins,” he’d said sincerely.

She’d looked to him with gratitude then. “I’m glad you’re here now, Bran. We can rebuild our home together.”

In that moment, she’d been sure that the North will once again return to its former glory. Bran was finally there, and he’d told her that Arya lives. It would only be a matter of time before Arya comes home, and, by then, Jon would have already returned from Dragonstone. She’d been so confident and so sure that whatever the outcome of Jon’s negotiations with the foreign queen, they would all survive winter.

They would’ve never survived suffering and blood and betrayal only to die of the cold. That she’d been certain of. And she was right. The Battle for the Dawn is over, and they are still alive.

But now, as she stands across from where her brother sits on his chair, Sansa can’t help but think that perhaps the gods, cruel as they are, allowed them to live through the cold so that they can all fall apart in the fire.

“Why, Bran? Tell me why,” she demands.

“I do not want it. I never did,” her brother insists. “And Jon deserves the crown more than anyone.”

“Jon is a Stark, yes, but he is not the son of Ned Stark. You are,” she asserts. “I’m not saying we should overthrow him. I would never…” she stops, taking a deep breath to reel her frustration in before speaking again. “He’s already said before that you are the rightful heir and that you should wear the crown. If you ask it of him, he will give it to you.”

Bran shakes his head slowly. “You will think of another way.”

“What other way is there, Bran?” she snaps. “You refuse to tell me anything that could help. I’ve considered all our options, thought of every possibility. There is no other way but this.”

Her brother only gives her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But my mind has not changed since you last asked me, Sansa. I will not take Jon’s crown.”

She bites her lip in aggravation, wanting to keep her frustration from showing. In the end, she only wins the battle halfway, allowing a scoff to slip past her lips as she walks away from her brother with every intention of storming out of his chamber.

Bran has always been the quietest among her siblings, and it was one of the things that endeared him to her. During the harshest nights of winter when she would torture herself with thoughts of how Arya, Jon and all the rest of her friends and people were faring in battle, she often drew strength from Bran’s calm and quiet composure.

But now, she can’t help but find his whole stillness so maddening.

She whirls around to face him. “Am I the only one who thinks of our home? Of our people? _Of our family?_ ”

“Sansa –“

She cuts him off when she rushes forward and kneels by his chair, taking hold of his hands. “All you ever cared about when you returned home were the White Walkers and the Battle for the Dawn, and you were right, Bran. You were,” she starts out saying. “But the White Walkers are gone now. _We_ are still here. _The North_ is still here. And yet you act as though your mind never came back from beyond the Wall.”

When Bran abruptly breaks his gaze to look out the window, Sansa thinks she’s finally convinced him. But when he releases a shaky breath and returns to look at her with rueful and almost guilty eyes, she suddenly realizes how terribly, terribly wrong she is.

She hastily drops his hands when she draws back. “No,” she whispers, her eyes wide with dread. “No, no, no. You cannot.”

“Sansa, I –“

“You will leave your family again to return to that place? How could you –“

“It’s my destiny, Sansa. The Three-eyed raven –“

“Yes, the three-eyed raved told you. But your gift will be of more use here than it will be there,” she argues but he is already shaking his head.

“It does not work like that.”

“Then how does it work? Tell me why you have to leave your home and your family.”

Bran slams his hand on the arm of his chair. “You wouldn’t understand,” he grounds out.

For a moment, she just stares at him, shocked by her brother losing his temper and by the pain his words have inflicted on her.

“Of course I wouldn’t,” she finally says. “How could I? You’ve never told me a thing about it.”

She leaves the room before Bran can say anything else.

 

* * *

 

 

Upon Arya’s insistence, Sansa finally joins the rest of the keep for supper to the delight of the Northern lords and ladies, as well as those of the Vale and the Riverlands. When she stands in front of the dais, she bows to her king and the queen in the South.

“Lady Sansa,” Jon starts awkwardly before being cut off by the woman on his right.

“I’m glad you’ve decided to join us, Lady Stark,” Daenerys says with the most pleasant smile. “Your presence has been sorely missed.”

“Hear, hear.” A chorus of agreement is heard from the side of the Great Hall where the Northerners sit.

She returns Daenerys’ smile with one of her own. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

When Jon motions to one of the servants to fix a place for her by his left side next to Arya, she clears her throat to get his attention. “Your Grace, there is no need for that,” she announces. “I wish to sit with my men… if they would have me of course.”

Immediately, the men of Winterfell roar with approval. Without waiting for Jon’s response, she curtsies and turns before making her way to the empty space between Brienne and Jaime. As soon as she takes her seat, everyone resumes eating.

Except for one.

She can feel Jon’s eyes on her. She hasn’t seen him since the meeting with the other lords that afternoon. Brienne had told her how his eyes had followed her then too when she left the room with Lady Lyanna.

“Did he look angry?” she’d asked her sworn shield. It’s not the first time she challenged him in front of others although she did so in a manner that wasn’t privy to anyone but them.

“No, he did not,” the knight had answered. “He looked rather… tired.”

“He’s always tired.”

Brienne had looked at her with an odd expression. “Not when you’re near,” she’d said.

Sansa almost allows herself to be tempted into looking at him, but then a serving girl appears behind her. “Wine, my lady?”

She doesn’t recognize the face, but the girl’s smile soothes her as she lifts her cup for it to be filled. She takes notice of how the girl’s eyes never leave her face and how she just stands there even after filling her cup.

“I heard about your little meeting earlier with the queen,” Jaime says in a low voice, catching her attention. There is a wide smile stretched across his face. “Did you tell her the Red Wolf orders her to fuck off?”

“Ser Jaime,” Brienne scolds him.

“It’s alright, Brienne,” Sansa tells her knight. She smiles at her reassuringly as she takes a sip from her cup. After her fight with Bran, she desperately needs all the japes and humor Jaime can provide.

“Does that mean you’ve finally warmed up to the title, my lady?” Jaime says with a laugh.

“Hardly,” she retorts. “I just know you’re a lost cause when it comes to understanding proper courtesy.”

He leans in closer so that no one but the three of them can hear. “Is that what you showed our dragon queen this morning? Courtesy?” he asks with a smirk before taking a bite from his plate.

She rolls her eyes at him. "You, Ser, are insuffera –"

She abruptly stops talking as she feels like her breath has been knocked out of her. All of a sudden, a feeling of lightheadedness washes over her, and she feels something warm touch her lips. She raises her hand to inspect what it is, and when she pulls back, she sees the tip of fingers that do not feel like hers covered in blood.

“Sansa?” she hears Brienne say her name, voice filled with alarm.

She turns to face her friend. Even as her vision begins to blur, she can see Brienne’s eyes wide like saucers, fear evident in them. Slowly, she turns her hand to show her.

“It’s blood,” she murmurs before the blackness swallows her completely.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lady of Winterfell wakes.

Cawing. That is what she hears first.

For a moment, fear grips her as she thinks she’s back in Ramsay’s clutches. But then she realizes that the sound is coming from somewhere in the distance and not from her. Like before, she’s in her home, back in the very place she gambled her life for the chance to escape. But now she isn’t a bird anymore. She is a wolf.

Gingerly, she moves her hand and feels the soft fur beneath her fingers. It’s a familiar sensation that tells her right away that she is in her own bed. She opens her eyes and squints at the light streaming from her windows. She shifts her body, trying to sit up, but the sharp pain in her head causes her to groan.

“Sansa?”

She turns her head and sees Jaime Lannister sitting on a chair by her bed. The sight of him surprises her. When she thinks of the people she expects to see by her bedside, she doesn’t think of Jaime first no matter that they’ve certainly grown closer.

But here he is. His eyes are red-rimmed with dark, purple circles underneath. His shoulders are hunched over, his hands flat on his thigh, and it looks like he hasn’t shaved in days. It strikes her how he’s never looked older and more exhausted than he does now.

“What –“ she begins but isn’t able to say anything else before she starts coughing, only realizing now how parched her throat is.

“Here,” Jaime stands up immediately and sits beside her, holding a mug in his hand. He brings his golden hand to the back of her head and, with his good hand, brings the mug to her lips. “Drink.”

Wordlessly, she does as she’s asked, allowing him to lift her head so she can take a sip. Closing her eyes, she lets the warm water soothe her throat as Jaime gently lays her head back down. When he goes back to the chair he’s been sitting on without saying a word, she thinks that maybe she should say something. But before she can, Jaime speaks.

“You’ve been unconscious for five days. We all thought...” he cuts himself off abruptly, but she doesn’t need to hear the rest of it to know what he’s supposed to say. He scrubs his face with his left hand, breathing in deeply. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

She rubs her temples, trying to come up with an answer, when a thought hits her as she glances at her hand. “There was blood,” she says in a hoarse voice.

Nodding his head, he says thickly, “You were poisoned.”

“Poisoned,” she repeats, not quite believing what she’s hearing. “The feast,” she says. And then her eyes widen, the memory of it all coming back to her. “The serving girl.”

“She says someone gave her the wine to give it to you, told her it was the best wine that Dorne has to offer,” he says. “She claims she knew nothing of the poison, of course. Says she just wanted to serve the beloved Lady of Winterfell.”

She doesn’t know what to say, the image of the girl’s smiling face still clear in her mind. She realizes she believes the girl to be innocent. Every person she’s come across in her life has taught her how to read people’s faces. Thinking back on how the girl unwittingly stared at her, she’s reminded of how she used to look at Cersei the first time she met her.

“We’re on the brink of chaos, my lady. If it wasn’t for the King, you’d be waking up to yet another war. The Northerners are accusing Daenerys and her allies, since the wine was from Dorne,” he continues. “And of course, Daenerys is furious. They say they’re being framed by Northmen who are looking for the perfect reason to vilify her.”

Sansa continues to stare at him wordlessly. He is here in her chambers and, judging by the way he looks utterly disheveled with his scruffy beard, tousled hair and rumpled tunic, she knows he isn’t here as her guard but as someone keeping vigil. He isn’t here solely out of duty, she thinks, because what she sees when she looks at his face is something all too familiar for her not to take notice. It’s the face she had seen on a looking glass before, when she learned of her father’s arrest after informing Cersei of his plans to take them back North, when she wrote that first letter to Robb and her mother to ask them to swear fealty to Joffrey. She knows that face quite well because she still finds it staring back at her every once in a while.

And then as if on cue, she understands why he’s there with her in the first place.

“You don’t think it’s any of them,” she says, her words slowly making their way past her chapped lips.

It seems to break any resolve he has left. His face twists in even more guilt before he covers his face with his hands. His shoulders heave as he takes labored breaths like a drowning man struggling for air. She allows him only a second to be lost in his own sea of woe and not a second longer.

“Jaime,” she rasps. When he doesn’t look up, she repeats in a firmer voice. “ _Jaime_.”

And it does the trick. He lifts his head, and suddenly she’s staring at the overwhelming grief in his eyes that can only be rivaled by Jon’s ever morose ones. Perhaps there is something in her eyes as well because he stills unexpectedly.

“You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?” he asks. He lets out an empty chuckle. “You have always been too smart for your own good, Red Wolf.”

She gives a tiny smile. “Tell me,” she urges gently.

He sobers up again and takes a deep breath. “The poison… it’s similar to the one used to kill Joffrey,” he begins. “If it weren’t for that fat maester, the King’s friend –“

“Sam,” she supplies.

“Sam. If he hadn’t figured it out in time, you would’ve…” he pauses, taking another breath. “It’s _her_ , Sansa. I’m sure of it. She already knows that there is discord between you and Daenerys. Successfully framing her for your death would’ve plunged the North into yet another war. It would’ve been the perfect way to get rid of both of you.”

It makes sense of course, and the idea of Cersei striking a blow not even a moon since the Battle for the Dawn was won – especially after making false promises of sending more men to aid them – is exactly like her. Honor and integrity have never been traits of hers to begin with. Sansa knows that, had she died, Cersei would’ve gotten the result she wanted. And it’s obvious that Jaime knows it too.

“I should’ve known… it was foolish to think she would let fucking White Walkers and dragons stop her from her obsession to kill you. I shouldn’t have let my guard down. I’m… forgive me.”

“Unless you were an accomplice in your sister’s plot to poison me, Ser, there is nothing to forgive,” she tells him sincerely. He shakes his head, and she knows nothing she can say will lessen his self-loathing so she decides to change the subject. “The serving girl, where is she?”

“The King had her locked up for further questioning,” he starts out saying. “But when the guards came to check on her the following day, she was dead… poisoned as well. The men have searched the whole castle for any unfamiliar face but found nothing. King Jon has been in an even worse mood since.”

“And Daenerys?” she asks, not wanting to dwell on Jon yet, even though a large part of her wants to know if he’s come to visit her.

“For once, the dragon bitch has remained silent. Although we’ve heard talk from her men that she’s impatient to bring her dragons and army back south to take the iron throne from Cersei…” he hesitates then, and the obvious reluctance he shows ignites an uneasiness within her.

“What is it, Jaime?” she asks, unable to resist the urge to know what he’s so reluctant to say even though everything inside her screams that it isn’t good. _Has Jon bent the knee? Has he agreed to stand beside Daenerys when she sits on the iron throne?_

Jaime inhales deeply before he sets her green eyes on her blue ones. “I intend to join her army south, my lady,” he states firmly. “I will take the Lannister forces under my command and march to King’s Landing to see my beloved twin.”

Part of her has already begun to anticipate this as soon as she realized it was Cersei who orchestrated the assassination attempt. While the lioness prefers to have other people do her bidding for her, she’s never known Jaime to be averse to getting his hands dirty, especially when it comes to matters as personal as this. He’s already once hinted at his willingness to lead the Northern army south if Sansa so chooses to take the iron throne for herself, so it doesn’t surprise her to hear his words now.

Still, knowing him and knowing all that do little to stop the simmering doubt buried underneath her layers of steel. _He loved her once,_ it tells her. _He loved her so much that he pushed your brother off a tower._

“Do you mean to reconcile with your sister, Ser?” she teases lightly, not wanting him to see through her fears but also wanting some semblance of reassurance from him.

“Daenerys just wants to kill her to get the throne,” he says evenly. “Someone has to be there to deliver justice on your behalf. Someone has to stop her from committing any more crimes against you.”

“Jaime, you and I both know there’s only one thing anyone can do to stop Cersei Lannister,” she says carefully.

Nodding, he sighs. But then his shoulders straighten and he looks at her with an expression full of resolve. “Yes, I know.”

Her eyes widen at his admission. Slowly, she pulls herself up to a sitting position, turns her body to the side, letting her legs hang over the edge of the bed, and faces him. “I would never wish that on you… no matter how much I hate your sister,” she says truthfully.

When he says nothing, she speaks again. “What did Brienne say?”

He lets out the first genuine laugh. “That woman’s loyalty to you runs far deeper than whatever she feels for me,” he says. When he sees the confusion on her face, he elaborates. “She refuses to tell me what she thinks until I inform you of my decision.”

“You do not ask for my permission then,” she says.

The smirk he gives her makes her feel lighter in spite of the gravity of the situation she’s faced with. It’s a love-hate relationship she has with that smirk. “I’m afraid not, my lady,” he declares. “And besides, you’ll need me to watch over our beloved king. Make sure he doesn’t mistakenly place his crown on a head that isn’t his.”

And just like that, whatever optimism she began to feel has seeped out upon hearing his words.

“It seems you’re not the only one who thinks my consent unnecessary.”

Jaime’s face falls once he realizes what he’s unwittingly divulged. “It was the deal they agreed upon, Sansa,” he explains almost pityingly. “The dragons and her Unsullied and Dothraki against the Others for the Northern army against Cersei and Euron’s.”

“I know that,” she says sharply though her hoarse voice fails to fully convey her irritation. Yes, it was the terms of their agreement – an agreement Jon never thought to include her in. She turns to gaze out the window, not wanting to see the look of pity on his face. She focuses on the feel of the fur beneath her hands, all the while reminding herself how far she’s come and how much she’s achieved through her own efforts.

_Steadfast like Father, wise like Mother, fearless like Robb, free like Rickon and gentle like Lady._

When she’s recited her mantra enough times to calm her, she faces the Kingslayer once more. “Promise me you won’t do anything too reckless,” she finally says.

Jaime stands and kneels in front of her. “Then you must promise me the same, my lady. This plan of yours,” he begins. “Are you certain –“

“I spoke with Bran before the feast,” she says, cutting him off. She hadn’t been able to tell neither Brienne nor Jaime about her conversation with her brother.

Jaime nods, understanding. “So he still hasn’t agreed to it then.”

“I’m now more certain than ever that this is the only way, and that is all that matters,” she says resolutely. But upon seeing his face full of worry, her expression softens. “But I promise to be careful.”

“You better be,” he replies, smiling at her fondly. “If there is anything I’m sure of after all this, it’s that your people cannot afford to lose you, Lady Stark.”

“I can say the same thing about you and Brienne,” she says, smiling back.

He stands up then. And, with a glint in his eyes, he adds, “Perhaps when I return, I’ll court the stubborn wench just to see how red I can make her blush.”

Sansa laughs. “I shall hold you to that, Ser. And perhaps we shall celebrate the coming of spring with a wedding.”

Now it is Jaime whose cheeks turn a shade of red for in spite of all his japes about courting the lady knight, he can’t help but act like a green boy whenever the idea of marriage comes up.

“That’s the wonderful thing about being my sworn shields and not in the Kingsguard – I don’t require you to abstain from marriage,” she’d told Jaime and Brienne once in one of the rare moments when she’d been deep in her cups. Podrick had guffawed louder than any of them had ever heard him while both Jaime and Brienne had turned as red as a tomato.

She beams at him now before laughing as loud as her throat allows her to. When the Kingslayer scowls at being teased so, she waves her hand at him as though to flick away his frown. “Oh Jaime, let me have my fun,” she tells him. “This might be all the amusement I can get in the days to come.”

She lets out a soft chuckle that sounds sad even to her own ears.

“You can ask about him, you know,” Jaime says softly. “Gods know he’s asked about you more times than I can count. Even your sister has grown tired of it.”

“And yet you’re the one who is here.”

“He stayed with you the first two days, refused to leave your bedside. But it seems our King has been taught well on matters of ruling,” he says, raising a knowing brow at her. “When he realized the dragon queen felt quite insulted with being forgotten so, he had Brienne watch over you in his stead though it was obvious he was none too pleased by it.”

When she doesn’t say anything, he adds in an even softer voice, “He’s ordered us to report to him immediately as soon as you’ve awaken.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Go then,” she says evenly as she gingerly pushes herself back to lean on the headboard.

Jaime chuckles. “You wound me, my lady,” he japes, putting both his good hand and golden one over his heart. “Here I thought my presence has been making you feel better. I had even planned to keep you company the whole day.”

His effort to lighten the mood once more doesn’t succeed. “Go to Brienne, Jaime,” she says kindly. “If you are to go South, you ought to spend as much time with her as you can. We do not know when or even if you will return.”

He stands up then, humor absent in his face and in its stead is a serious expression. “I promise to return, Sansa, and I shall stay true to my word,” he says earnestly.

She gives him a smile that is overflowing with melancholy. “Someone promised me the same once,” she murmurs, eyes distant and full of longing before finally settling on him again. They both know who she is referring to. “Forgive me, Ser, for no longer believing such vows.”

 

* * *

 

Never known to follow orders to the letter, Jaime goes to the Maester instead of the King. She’s still weak, Maester Lucan says, and he recommends three days rest at the very least although he is well aware by now that the Lady of Winterfell does not rest if she can help it. Once he is done with checking her condition, he leaves but not before informing her of his duty to report her recovery to Jon.

Her next visitor, however, isn’t the broody King.

“Do you hate me?” he asks as soon as she opens her eyes and sees him sitting on his chair by the bed.

“Wh-“ she pauses, swallowing thickly to soothe her throat. “Why would I hate you?”

“I could’ve stopped it,” he murmurs. “I mean… I should’ve been able to see it. If I did, you wouldn’t have…”

She reaches out and takes his hand in hers. “Hush, Bran,” she says kindly. “This isn’t your fault.”

Bran squeezes her hand. “This is why I need to go back there, Sansa,” he says softly. “Right now, I can only see bits and pieces. I need to be better, and the only way for that to happen is if I go back to where the three-eyed raven was.”

“But the war is already won. The Long Night has passed, and the dawn has come. It won’t be long until spring is upon us,” she says.

“That doesn’t mean we will always have peace. There will always be a new threat, Sansa, and they will be stronger and smarter. And I have to be ready for it.”

She lets his words sink in. There is truth to them, she knows. She considers asking him if the new threat breathes fire instead of ice, but she decides she doesn’t want this conversation with her younger brother to end up like their previous one.

“I need you, Bran. You are right, peace will not last forever. It might not even last until the moon’s end if Daenerys refuses to let the North be,” she confides instead. “I need you here with me because Jon… I do not know where his heart lies.”

Her brother’s eyes soften as he gazes at her longingly. “Yes, you do,” he says.

Sansa doesn’t notice how her heart is slamming furiously against her chest. In that moment, all she can focus on is what Bran had just said. And there is nothing left for her to feel but a crashing wave of pain and a burning sense of betrayal.

“So he will give her the North then?” she asks even as her chest begins to rise and fall rapidly. But before her emotions consume her whole and spit her out, she is pulled out from the crevices by Bran who covers their joined hands with his other one.

“You misunderstand me, sister,” he tells her soothingly.

“What do you mean?” she asks again, confused. “He is either for the North or for Daenerys. He will either fight for our independence or bend the knee. There is no middle ground. Daenerys will not allow it.”

“Aye, she won’t,” he says with a faraway look in his eyes.

“Have you seen it, Bran? The future?” Sansa asks, her voice shaking. “Will we… will the North be ruled by dragons?”

He doesn’t answer right away, still staring off in the distance. It allows Sansa to study him up close. Unlike her, Bran has no lines on his face nor are there dark circles under his eyes. There is no trace at all of the sorrow or hardship he experienced. At first glance, anyone would say that his face is that of a child. Because at the age of ten and three, he _is_ a child.

His eyes, however, tell a completely different story. There’s a deep and insurmountable depth in his deep blue eyes, one that can diminish even the boldest men and incite a feeling of ignorance within the person looking into them. Even Tyrion does not feel inclined to hold a conversation with the youngest Stark, the latter incapable of appreciating humor and sarcasm.

And even if he could, there is something so utterly terrifying about being in the presence of someone who knows the past and who has the ability to know the future. It is why no matter how many times she has asked him about his visions of the past – save, of course, of _her_ past – and what it means to be the three-eyed raven, she has never asked him about the future.

Not until now, that is.

“Bran?”

“You will be okay,” he eventually says. “I wouldn’t leave you if I’ve seen otherwise.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, I did not,” he answers softly.

She considers pushing the matter further, but she already knows it won’t do any good. Sighing, she asks instead, “Are you sure you want to leave? You can do whatever it is you desire now. Wed Meera, if you like.”

“Meera doesn’t deserve the kind of life she will have if she joins me,” her brother says. “Her future is in the Neck with her father.”

“You can be lord of Winterfell then,” she suggests.

He smiles at her. “I never wanted to be lord of Winterfell, Sansa, you know that. And the last thing Winterfell needs now is a new lord when it already has you as its lady. You’re the best person to rule, my sister. Winterfell is yours as it should be.”

Before she can utter a reply, Bran continues. “You saved the North just as much as Jon did. Father would be proud of you. Mother and Robb too,” he says sincerely. “Rickon probably wouldn’t understand a thing about ruling, but he’d always loved you so fiercely.”

Silently, her brother reaches out and wipes away a tear she doesn’t know has escaped her. It’s been far too long since her body has betrayed her like this, but in her brother’s presence, she finds it a forgivable offense.

“And I am proud of you,” he says finally.

She can’t help but shake her head at that. _Yet you choose to leave me,_ she almost says, but she doesn’t want to fight with him anymore. “When do you leave?” she tiredly asks instead.

“I will stay some time longer if you would have me?” he answers almost hesitantly.

“You need not ask, Bran.” She gives him a sad smile.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ser Jaime says it was Cersei Lannister,” Arya announces as soon as she takes a seat by her side of the bed.

Sansa nods. “She still thinks I killed her son.”

“Cersei Lannister is the last one on my list,” her sister says lowly.

Her head snaps up in attention as worried, sapphire eyes meet cool, grey ones.

“You are of the North, Arya,” she says slowly, emphasizing each word. “The battle for the iron throne is not yours to fight.”

“When our bannermen find out that Cersei Lannister is behind the attempt on your life, they will agree to join the march south.”

Arya’s words strike fear in her gut as her blood freezes. Without warning, she sits up and pulls her sister closer to her until they are merely inches away. “They mustn’t! If they go south, they will be at the mercy of the dragons. They will have no protection, no allies, nothing! When Daenerys takes the throne from Cersei, she will demand us to bend the knee. And with Northerners as hostages, with _you_ as a hostage, we will have no choice but to swear fealty,” she whispers frantically.

Arya releases a long exhale. “Sansa, you forget that Jon will be there too.”

The way she says it, like Sansa’s forgotten that the sky is blue or that winter has come, gives her pause. Sansa has been successful so far in avoiding talk of their cousin with her sister, knowing that Arya not only trusts Jon implicitly, but that she also loves him perhaps more than anyone else in the world. Arya, for her part, loves her enough to allow her to avoid talking about Jon, knowing that doing so will only lead to heated arguments similar to the countless ones they had before.

But unlike her resignation with Bran’s decision to go back to wherever it is beyond the Wall, this is a debate Sansa cannot afford to put off at another time.

“Arya,” she begins carefully. “You’ve heard the whispers as much as I.”

It takes less than a second for her sister to roll her eyes at that. “They are only whispers,” she insists, resolve written plainly on her face. “Jon is Jon. He is my brother, and he will not betray us.”

Sansa inwardly winces at Arya’s response. _Jon is Jon. He is my brother._ She told Brienne the same thing when they were still in Castle Black. It’s been two years since that night, and she can’t help the tear at the seams of her flimsily stitched up heart at the thought of how much things has changed. He isn’t just Jon anymore. He is the King in the North now. And he certainly isn’t her brother. Jon Snow is her cousin, and even then, she finds that what she feels for him isn’t at all familial.

She also doesn’t miss how Arya calls him _her_ brother and not theirs, and she wonders what that means – if it is merely a result of the unmistakable distance growing between her and Jon or if it is something more. A realization perhaps or a conclusion drawn from a careful and painstaking observation that Sansa has been so vigilant in trying to prevent. Eventually, she decides to come back to that particular thought at a later time because whatever it is, it will not change Arya’s stance in the matter. To her, Jon is her brother, and she will never think twice about putting her absolute trust on him.

Truth be told, she finds herself hating Jon a little bit for it, for letting her siblings put their faith in him and for having her be the one to compensate for it. Sansa knows what it’s like to trust him only to have that trust compromised for the sake of his damned honor, but her brother and sister do not.

And it pains her to think that there will come a time when they too will feel the disappointment of realizing that Jon Snow may be the Prince that was Promised, the King that was raised from the dead, a Targaryen dragon and a Stark wolf, but in the end, he is still just a man.

“I am not saying he will, Arya. But… we must be prepared for every possible outcome,” she finally says, gently this time, like the way Jon used to soothe her after waking her up from her night terrors. And then, in an even softer voice, she adds, more for her benefit than for her sister’s, “I did not survive this far to lose everything I love now.”

The look Arya gives her is both knowing and curious in equal measure. “But you love Jon as well, do you not?”

Sansa does not answer.

 

* * *

 

 

She sees it in the distance, a speck of grey in a field of white and green. In the eyes of any other, the view is average, undeserving of a second glance, much less a lingering one. But to her, it is a sight that gives her warmth. Even from afar, with the falling snow of winter and the mounting green of spring, she can see it all so vividly.

Winterfell.

Sansa doesn’t fool herself into thinking it a magnificent castle. It looks as dreary and dull as it does up close. It doesn’t have the vivacity of King’s Landing, false as it may be. It doesn’t have the intimidating grandeur of the Vale. No, her keep is simply slabs of stone and rock piled on top of each other. That the North doesn’t get half the sunlight the Southern kingdom receives makes it all the more austere.

But it is home.

She used to think she would never find comfort in it after Ramsay, but she was wrong. The memories are still there. There are moments when she can hear her own screams echoing through the halls, coming from her childhood room where her former husband locked her in. Often she’s surprised to find her feet have taken her to the part of the castle’s wall where she and Theon jumped, and then she would make her way to where Ramsay showed her the flayed body of the old woman who sought to help her escape – until now, she still lights a candle for both of them.

Whenever she thinks of them, she is reminded of why she has decided to fight so desperately and viciously for the North’s independence. She will never trust the lives of her people and her family to anyone else.

She doesn’t know if she still believes in the gods, but she’s chosen to believe in this – that as long as Winterfell stands, she will fight to keep it, until her dying breath if need be, from rulers who know nothing of the North and its people.

Caught up in the sight of her home, she doesn’t realize where she is until she hears a rumbling huff coming from behind her. She whips her head around and comes face to face with piercing yellow and black eyes, furious and accusing.

Before it even occurs to her what those eyes mean, she hears an earsplitting screech that is loud, deadly and all too familiar, and then she realizes that the sound belongs to the fuming eyes in front of her. Slowly, her eyes grow wide with fear as it dawns on her who she is staring at.

All of a sudden, she wakes to find herself back in her chambers, covered in sweat and panting. She sits up and waits for her heart to stop pounding and her breathing to even out before she allows herself to fully comprehend what has just transpired. It takes her a moment to be sure of it all.

And then she smiles.

 

* * *

 

Brienne stares at her as if she’s grown another head.

“I will not.”

“You must.”

“Sansa –“

“It’s not a request, Brienne,” she says in a voice that does not leave any room for argument.

She is tired and frustrated, her patience already wearing thin. Since waking up earlier, she’d spent the next hour or so trying to repeat it. Bran had taught her how to better control it, but all her attempts have failed. Desperate to pull it off once more, she’d pushed and pushed until her vision blurred and the room began to spin. It was only then that she stopped, knowing exactly what would happen if she didn’t.

Surprised by her cool reaction, Brienne steps back and Sansa automatically cringes. She’s never treated the knight so formally before, but she stands her ground, having decided earlier on that this must be done.

“Ser Jaime did not mention that you wished me to join them, my lady,” Brienne says cautiously. “In fact, he made it seem that you would have him go without me.”

“That was before Arya announced her intention to join this godsforsaken war,” she says.

She’d known even before she came to her that Arya would want to go south with Jon. Arya has always been eager to fight, and that has only gotten worse throughout the years what with her being trained to be a deadly assassin. Nothing Sansa said stopped her from marching with Jon North to fight in the Battle for the Dawn. So truly, it was no surprise to hear that the younger Stark girl plans to march to the south now.

However, Sansa had secretly hoped that, for once, Arya would choose to stay by her side this time around. With Bran intending to leave for beyond the Wall and now Arya announcing she will go south, there is a newfound loneliness settling in her bones. It saddens her really, that in spite of how much she has changed, there are things that clearly haven’t.

Has she always been so alone? Has it been just her all this time?

 _No_. The answer comes much quicker than she expects. She can never deny that there was a time she felt warmth and comfort and _home_ in the arms of another, that in his embrace she felt safe enough to lower the barricade she so carefully put up around her.

But that feeling is long gone now, and it feels as distant as the memories of her childhood innocence.

“Your sister can take care of herself,” Brienne argues.

“I can take care of myself as well!” she snaps, slamming her hand down on the table. “Every one of you still thinks I’m this weak, fragile girl who needs someone to protect her, but I was able to survive on my own for years before any of you decided to show up! _I_ outlived Joffrey, _I_ destroyed Ramsay, _I_ killed Littlefinger! _Me!_ I did that!”

In the wake of her outburst, there is only the sound of her deep breaths as she tries to rein in her anger – anger that she has always tempered down whenever the lords unknowingly belittle, underestimate or patronize her for being a woman or whenever she hears Daenerys Targaryen be praised for her strength and bravery while she is commended for her courtesies and, worse, her mother’s beauty.

There is a voice in the back of her mind that tells her Brienne is the last person who deserves such treatment from her, and yet she allows herself this moment of negligence. Perhaps it’s because she’s slowly succumbing to this burden she’s stubbornly chosen to carry herself. Perhaps it’s because this is Brienne in front of her, Brienne who has been both the most loyal servant and the most devoted friend, Brienne who looks at her with eyes that almost shimmer with pride. Brienne who now kneels before her.

“Forgive me,” she says softly. “I did not mean –“

Sansa sighs and puts a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I know. I’m sorry for lashing out. You’ve been by my side longer than anyone else has. Arya will always be a wanderer, and it’s only a matter of time before Bran goes further North. Jon is…” she stops, not allowing herself to finish that thought. Giving her a weak smile, she says instead, “You’re my only constant, Brienne. I fear I wouldn’t be able to bear it if you abandon me as well.”

The strained expression on Brienne’s face softens. “I know I made a vow to serve you, Sansa, and I will spend the rest of my days honoring it,” the knight begins. “But you must know that I would still do so even without my oath… willingly and gladly. I will fight for no one’s side but yours, which is why I fail to understand why you want me to fight for the Targaryen queen.”

“I’m not asking you to fight for her, Brienne,” she replies soothingly. “When the war for the iron throne ends, you are the only one I can trust to protect her from becoming a pawn in this damned game, to keep her safe.”

“If I go, who shall keep _you_ safe? There has already been one attempt at your life, Sansa,” Brienne pleads.

The corner of her lips tug upward in a slight smirk. She’s already thought this through. “Sandor will stay. You know how much he hates the dragons.”

Already sensing defeat, Brienne huffs as she stands. “I do not know why you trust that man,” she says under her breath.

“Yes, you do,” Sansa replies with a twinkle in her eyes for she, too, knows that she’s won this argument – her first one today. Suddenly, she doesn’t feel as tired as she did just moments ago, not when she knows her sister will be in good hands. “You were able to trust Jaime Lannister, did you not?”

Instead of answering her question, Brienne says, “Pod will stay as well. I will be much more at ease knowing that you have both the Hound and Pod to see to your safety. Grant me this at the very least.”

“Since when have you learned how to strike a bargain?” she asks with a groan as she settles on the bed once more, the idea of sleep more tempting that she cares to admit.

“I’ve learned quite a lot from my lady,” the knight says with a knowing grin.

Before she allows sleep to overtake her, Sansa reaches out a soft, delicate hand to her friend. Brienne hesitates only a second before grasping it with her calloused one. “Thank you, Brienne,” Sansa whispers earnestly.

Brienne gently squeezes her hand. “You are my lady, Sansa. But even more than that, you are my friend,” she says tenderly before slowly guiding her hand to her abdomen. “Now, go rest. You need to preserve your strength for the days to come.”

“Very well then,” she concedes groggily, eyes already closing.

Distantly, she hears Brienne cross the room to stand guard outside her chamber. But when she opens the door, there is a sharp intake of breath. All at once, the lure of rest leaves her when she hears a distinct voice so deep and so melancholic that can only belong to one person in the whole of Westeros

“Arya said she’s awoken. I… I’ve come to see how she fares.”

Sansa can practically feel the restlessness radiating off him, and it takes all her willpower to keep her eyes closed and her whole body still. He can see her, she is sure, so she begs her body not to betray her any more than it already has.

“King Jon,” she hears Brienne say after a second of silence, and she thinks that the lady knight might have looked to see her reaction to the unexpected visitor. “I’m afraid Lady Sansa has gone back to sleep. She is still weak from –“

“But how is she?” he blurts out. There is no denying the desperation and worry in his voice. He isn’t a king in this moment. He is a man starved, and all that can satiate him is an answer. “Is she alright?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Brienne answers evenly. “The maester expects her to make a full recovery within the week.”

Another pause.

“Did… has she asked for me?” he asks softly, timidly.

“Your Grace,” Brienne begins uncomfortably, “I –“

“Never mind. I will have Sam check her as well,” he cuts in hastily as though he suddenly feels embarrassed by his question. Or afraid of the answer he might get. “And… and please, inform her ladyship that I wish to visit her when she wakes. Please.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Brienne,” he says before she hears his slow retreating footsteps.

And then the door slowly creaks to a close. She’s never been more grateful to Brienne for not turning around and questioning her. But when she hears the soft click of the lock, a traitorous part of her wishes she isn’t alone now.

A part of her wishes Jon had stayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, guys. I promise. 
> 
> That said, it'll take a while before I'll be able to put it up because it's honestly the chapter I was and still am most terrified about writing. Seriously, just thinking about it makes me nervous as hell. 
> 
> Also, big love to everyone reading this, and even more love to those who have taken the time to comment. Your kind words and encouragement push me to move my ass and work on this fic every chance I get. Thank you!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King in the North and the Lady of Winterfell try to make sense of the ocean between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, here we go. I cannot even begin to express just how piss-in-my-pants nervous I am to post this. I've read and reread this chapter at least thirty (THIRTY!) times since I finished, and every single time, I either take some stuff away or add some stuff in. But then I realized I was beginning to pull a D&D and was just trying too hard to make the whole scene as dramatic and emotional as possible. Seriously, it's pretty embarrassing for me to admit, but when I read the entire thing in the light of day with a clear head, I cringed at how un-Sansa and un-Jon I made them out to be. So that led to me taking out whatever I put in for the sake of sparkle effect, and I surprisingly ended up with something that is more or less similar to the very first draft I made. That said, I'm not feeling confident about this chapter in terms of likability... but I'm definitely more at peace in terms of it staying true to what I've always envisioned for the story, which should be the most important thing, right? Also, when I finished (for real this time), I found that this chapter has exactly 7,000 words. If that isn't a sign, I don't know what is. 
> 
> Again, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for reading this story and for leaving comments and for just making me happy dance with all the kind and encouraging words.

Her eyes shot open as she heard the door to her chambers slowly creak open. Since her time in King’s Landing, even the lightest of footsteps or the softest of whispers could snap her wide awake no matter how deep in slumber she was. Ramsay hammered that in her further.

Tucked under her pillow, her right hand took hold of the dagger hidden underneath as she sensed the intruder approach. But before she could use it against him, the sound of his familiar breathing prompted her to get go of the weapon and shift toward the direction it was coming from.

“Sansa?”

Not so long ago, his voice had soothed her and had given her comfort in the nights when Ramsay terrorized her in her sleep. The first time it happened, they had still been in Castle Black. It’d been only two days since they reunited, and the immense joy and relief at seeing another family member had gradually faded into voids of silence where they would each drift off to wherever their mind would take them, either to the horrors of their past or the uncertainty of their future. It had been awkward, too, upon realizing that neither had known exactly how to act around the other since there existed no semblance of a relationship for them to fall back into, no memories to reminisce that revolved around just them and not their dead family.

But none of that had stopped Jon from rushing into her chambers the night she’d started screaming in her sleep. Not even Brienne who had seemed just about ready to use her sword to keep the lord commander away from her lady.

“This isn’t the first time, my lord,” Brienne had said in a rush as she’d blocked his path. “Touching her would only make it worse.”

“Someone has to help her!” he’d shot right back before shoving the knight aside and bursting through the door.

Brienne had ended up being mistaken. That night, as he’d cradled her trembling from in his arms that suddenly felt like holding her had been their purpose all along instead of wielding a sword, he’d murmured her name over and over again, gently pulling her back from Ramsay’s clutches until she’d opened her eyes and saw him gazing at her with eyes that had made her feel remarkably warm that far up North. He hadn’t asked her about what Ramsay did, just held her close to him while the slow and steady beating of his heart lulled her back to sleep.

Even after they would fight and debate about their plans to retake Winterfell from the Boltons, he would still come to her on the nights her terrors would sneak up on her. It hadn’t been until he’d left for Dragonstone that she’d come to realize it: in the light of day, she’d always been the one who wouldn’t think twice about reaching out for his hand, whether it was to have his complete attention or to emphasize a point in her argument. But at night, when the ugly faces from her past and the scars on her body would seem to come alive and remind her of the pain and torment she suffered from the hands of man, he would be the one to take her hand in his without a second thought. And not once had she ever flinched or cowered, had only let the sound of his voice saying her name calm her down and ease her back to the present.

“Jon,” she whispered, gazing at his silhouette as he stood by the foot of her bed.

Contrary to his previous visits, the sight of him in her chambers hours before the sun rose only unsettled her. Things were different. _They_ were different. He was still King in the North, but he was not just a Stark anymore.

Earlier that afternoon, Jon had called her and Arya to his solar. Bran was already there, and he’d worn a look that could easily be read as trepidation. As soon as she and Arya had settled in on the chairs in front of his desk, Jon had rubbed his face with his hands, and she’d immediately wanted to reach out and replace his with her own.

“I have to tell you something,” he’d started off saying.

But before he could say more, the door had burst open, and Daenerys Targaryen had stormed in with her guards behind her.

“You dare make a fool of me after I’ve agreed to help you save the North, _Jaeherys Targaryen_?” she’d accused in a low, seething voice.

Throughout it all, she’d stood there motionless as Jon confessed to the truth in a hurried and perfunctory manner, ending with an earnest promise that he had no desire whatsoever to the iron throne that he now had the biggest claim to. Surprisingly, Daenerys had accepted his words albeit with barely hidden suspicion, telling him that they would speak of it again after the White Walkers were defeated.

“You’re still my brother,” Arya had announced as soon as Daenerys had left them.

Jon had given his little sister a broken, if not pained, smile before turning to face her. An expression of doubt and anguish had washed over his face then, and seeing it could have broken her heart if it were not for the words that echoed at the back of her mind.

_He’s not my brother. Jon is not my brother._

It had been a realization that made her heart beat wildly against her chest, and, slowly, she was beginning to understand the reason why.

“Sansa?” he’d choked out.

She’d reached over and taken his hand then as she’d been wont to do since their reunion. “It doesn’t matter. You’re still my king, Jon.”

As he stood in her bedchamber, moonlight shining through her window, the King in the North was silent, looking wearier than ever. That wouldn’t do, she thought. In the following day, he would march off to the Wall _again_ , and, unlike the last time he left, she knew the possibility of him coming back was heartbreakingly slim.

Gingerly, she pulled the covers back and sat up. As soon as her feet touched the frigid stone floor, she couldn’t help the shudder that ran through her body. The sight of her slim form shivering seemed to break his trance, pushing him forward to take the robe that was slung over her chair and reaching it out to her.

Offering him a smile, she turned her back to him, allowing him to drape it over her shoulders. And when his thumb accidentally grazed the side of her neck, she couldn’t help but briefly close her eyes at the feel of his skin upon hers, repressing a sigh that wouldn’t sound sisterly at all.

But then again, she wasn’t his sister anymore, wasn’t she?

“You leave tomorrow,” she whispered, facing him as she draped her hair over her right shoulder.

“Aye,” he said just as softly. “I… I wanted to see you.”

Haltingly, her hands came up on their own accord and took hold of the thin fabric of his tunic. “You must come back, Jon,” she said, her voice low but firm even though her whole body was shaking, whether from the cold or from the tumult of emotions within her she didn’t know.

He nodded once. “I will try,” he replied hoarsely.

 _He doesn’t think he will survive,_ she thought. And as much as she hoped and needed that he would, she couldn’t help but think back to when she first saw him again at Castle Black when defeat and surrender were etched clearly on his face, when he wanted nothing more than to ride away from everything. And then she recalled the stories of Tormund, of how Jon so recklessly charged at the wights without a care for his own survival. A feeling of suffocating dread took over her, tightening her chest.

“You almost gave up before,” she mumbled to herself, eyes on the spot where her fingers played idly with the laces on his tunic. And then she turned her gaze to him. “What is to stop you from doing so again?”

He didn’t answer right away, just continued to look at her with those grey, searching eyes. As the silence stretched on, she began to pull back her arms, thinking her question too bold, her actions too forward, but he surprised her when he gently took her hands in his and put them back on his chest.

“You,” Jon finally said in a pained voice.

It was just one word, but it was all it took for Sansa to unravel. She’d been so adamant that what she felt for him was wrong, that he would forever be bound to her by blood, duty and nothing else.

But more importantly to her, she thought that what she felt was unrequited. She refused to consider otherwise for her sake. She only gradually came to realize her own affections for him after Bran and Arya returned, realizing that the warmth she felt with Jon was different from that with her two siblings.

Then Littlefinger had whispered in her ear about how Daenerys snuck into Jon’s cabin while they sailed back south and did not come out until sunrise. She’d spent the whole night tossing and turning in her bed, the ache in her chest too heavy and piercing, the images in her head too vivid and relentless. It hadn’t mattered how many times she told herself that what kept her up was the anger at his foolish impulsiveness because the logical part of her knew that it was the surest way of guaranteeing an alliance. There was anger there, to be sure, but overpowering that tenfold was pain, as though his sleeping with Daenerys was an act directly against her.

On the day he arrived at Winterfell with Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons, she’d felt like she was about to split in two what with the complete relief of seeing him again battling with the hurt and betrayal she’d felt by his actions.

But when Jon had caught sight of her and their eyes had met, he’d smiled – that half-smile she’d been sure he had only ever given to her – and Sansa had never felt lighter than in that moment. She’d known then that the affection she felt for him was different, was infinitely more than she’d been trying to convince herself it was.

She was brought back from her thoughts when, all of a sudden, Jon’s calloused hands cupped her face so that her gaze couldn’t fall on anywhere but him. “ _You,_ Sansa.”

“But Daenerys –“ she stopped abruptly when she saw his face fall as he dropped his hands to the side, the sudden loss of contact leaving her cold and wanting.

“You were my half-sister,” he began in a rough voice. “I thought Melisandre brought me back wrong, and I hated myself for feeling this way. And Daeneys was… She has a good heart, and I thought perhaps… I could love her. I wanted to.” He let out a tired sigh then before his eyes searched for hers once more. “Then Bran told me who I am…”

They both knew that there was a time not too long ago when she declared the Targaryens untrustworthy, enemies of the North, and how they should never ally with dragons. That he was suddenly one of them was something neither of them could have ever predicted. With how adamant she was that he not go to Dragonstone to meet with Daenerys, it only made sense that he would think she’d reject him now that it was discovered he shared the same blood as the dragon queen.

“I’m sorry,” Jon added, dropping his gaze to his hands that seemed to be itching to touch her again. “You must hate me –”

“ _Never_ ,” she whispered, her eyes wide, almost begging him to believe her. Taking a deep breath, she said in a calmer voice, “I could never hate you.”

She took a small step back, thinking that putting more space between them would help her think more clearly. He was leaving the next day, and she knew it might very well be the last chance she would have to speak with him without having to play their respective roles, to allow herself to be honest and vulnerable with him the way she knew she could never be with another man ever again. She had to tell him everything. She had to show him just how much of herself she had unknowingly given to him and how much more she would be willing to give.

“When you’re old enough, I’ll make you a match with someone who is worthy of you. Someone who is brave and gentle and strong,” her father had told her.

For the longest time, she’d refused the prospect of being with anyone ever again, utterly terrified of the idea of someone being too close to her. It wasn’t just because of the things the men in her life had done to her. She’d been sure that there wasn’t a man alive who was the kind of man her father would want for her.

But then there was Jon. Jon who was brave and gentle and strong.

Sansa couldn’t help but wonder then how it would feel like to be with a man like him, to be wanted by him, to be loved by him. And gods did she want to be loved by him, gods did she want to be held by him.

“After Ramsay, all I could feel was hate. The only time I wouldn’t is whenever I slept because then I’d feel fear. And then I’d wake up with even more hate,” she said in a small voice, almost embarrassed by her confession. “But you… it all goes away when you ware with me. I do not care who your father is,” she said, voice louder and firmer. “You will always be Jon to me. And that… that is all that matters.”

He took one step closer to her as his hands reached up to hold her by her arms. “Sansa –“

“You have to come back, Jon. Promise me,” she pleaded, her eyes brimming with tears as she gripped his wrists. “Promise me you’ll come back to me,” she ended in a whisper.

The way his eyes widened ever so slightly and the way his breath hitched told her the exact moment he understood her words for what they were. But still, he remained silent. And for a second, she feared that she said too much and that she misunderstood everything.

Then he let out a soft exhale before breaking into that small, uneven smile of his, and just like that she couldn’t, for the life of her, understand why it took them so long to reach that point. She still didn’t know what she felt, but she knew well enough by then to know that it was a thousand times deeper and more profound and all-consuming than anything she would ever feel for the rest of her life.

She realized, then, that for all her beliefs of her never before being truly loved by anyone the way a man – a good man –  loved a woman, it never occurred to her that she hadn’t loved anyone in the same manner either. For all her childhood dreams of knights, songs and romance, love was as foreign to her as the dragons were to the North.

“Do you mean it?” he rasped, hope evident in his voice.  “Tell me you mean it.”

Smiling, she nodded, her thumbs stroking the insides of his wrists.

Ever so slowly and without his eyes leaving hers, he leaned closer to her until they were only inches away from each other. He cupped her face in his hands, tenderly caressing her cheeks.

And then he kissed her.

He pressed his lips on hers, and the grip she had on his wrists tightened just a fraction as she leaned further into him. The kiss was soft and chaste, but it banished every unwanted kiss she’d ever gotten. She swore she felt the cold in her bones only minutes ago, but now all she felt was warmth.

Warmth and _Jon_.

When they broke apart, Jon gave her a wistful smile as he wiped the tears that had escaped her eyes.

“Will you stay? At least until...” she trailed off, chewing at her bottom lip as she left it all unsaid. _At least until you have to leave again._

It was his turn to give a small nod. Taking his hand, she moved to lie on her bed once more, making room for him. There was no hesitation or awkwardness one would expect from two people who had just revealed their feelings for each other. Instead, they instinctively fell back to how they were on the long ago nights when he rescued her from her nightmares.

He curled his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him even though there was no need for it because she was already curling up as close as she possibly could to his body. Laying her head on the crook of his neck, she gently placed her hand right over his heart. When he laid his hand on top of hers to intertwine their fingers together, she couldn’t help but release a contented sigh as she let the sound of his breathing soothe her.

It had unsettled her at first, the first time she took notice of it – how every deep inhale was met with an abrupt pause before exhaling, as though every breath threatened to be his last. She thought that maybe that’s how it was seconds before he died, a sharp intake of breath before the daggers of his men pierced his heart and stopped it from beating. That image would play in her mind over and over again whenever she found herself alone with him, and their silence made his breathing as loud as the beating of drums.

And then gradually, without her even realizing it, every breath he took began to calm her. It became a source of comfort, an assurance that she is not alone any longer, that _he_ is there. Soon, she began to look forward to those quiet moments with him when they say with their presence what their words could not, when they would say nothing and everything all at once. It was with that thought blanketed around her heart and his arm wrapped around her that she finally closed her eyes.

The next time she opened them, it was already dawn. She looked up to find Jon’s soft gaze on her, and she decided then and there that she could spend the rest of her days staring into those eyes of his. But belatedly, she realized she’d be without them come sundown.

“When do you leave?” she murmured.

“As soon as the men are ready,” he answered. “And then in a strained voice, he added almost begrudgingly, “I have to get ready as well.”

Wordlessly, she shifted her body upward so that she could bridge the gap between them. She cradled her face in her hands, thumbs grazing the corner of his eyes. Unlike the night before, she was the one who initiated the kiss. This time, it didn’t remain soft and fleeting. What began as a languid meeting of lips gradually turned frantic and urgent and desperate and already so full of longing.

“Be safe, Jon,” she whispered against his lips.

Moments later, before he could leave, he grasped for her once more and held her to him, inhaling her scent as though he wished to commit it to memory. She held him tightly as well, wanting to let him know how badly she didn’t want to let go. And when they broke apart, there was both agony and yearning written so plainly on his face that would have made her beg for him to stay if not for his next words.

“I will come back to you, Sansa,” he said softly but with conviction that wasn’t there the night before. “I promise.”

“Then I will wait,” she answered.

And then he left.

 

* * *

 

She knows he’s here even before she fully wakes. She’s memorized the sound of his breathing by now. And even if she hasn’t, she can feel the familiar weight of his gaze upon her, that pull that urges her to search for his eyes.

It occurs to her now that the last time she found him in her bedchambers in the early hours of dawn was when he left for the battle. With it came a blossoming of hope deep within the very depths of her soul, the place she’d long since refused to dwell on. It’s a memory that gives her life as much as it cuts her down.

It was just a kiss. But it was enough to set her on fire, enough to melt the wall of ice that kept the pieces of her together. And when he’d left, his return uncertain, the pieces had scattered all around her, stubbornly waiting for him to put them back together again.

But he’s come back, alive and breathing. And yet, the pieces remain untouched.

 _Not for long,_ she thinks as she waits for him to speak. The only thing she doesn’t know is whether he is here to make her whole again or to shatter her to a thousand more pieces.

“Sansa?” he whispers in the darkness.

Unlike his previous visit, she doesn’t turn to face him even though she’s very much aware that Jon knows she isn’t asleep. He wouldn’t have called out to her if he didn’t.

She considers the options laid out before her. She is sure that if she feigns sleep, Jon will have no choice but to let her. The possibility of him marching up to her and shaking her awake to get her to talk to him is as preposterous as Ghost deciding to play with Rhaegal. It would be so easy for her to pretend – it’s one of her skilled crafts after all. But she knows that while Jon will never force her to speak with him, he can very well just stay put and wait for her to do so. And the idea of remaining a calm and still sleeping form with him so close by is not something she can endure in her current state.

And so she sits up slowly, resting her head and shoulders against the headboard. “Jon.”

The silence that stretches between them seems to last an eternity as they continue to face each other, drowning themselves in the unrelenting gaze of the other and knowing that once they break it, there will be no turning back.

In the end, it is Jon who succumbs to his desire to hear her voice.

“Forgive me,” he tells her, his voice is almost inaudible but there is no mistaking the pleading in his tone. He must only fall to his knees before her, and then he will be no different from the slaves and beggars she had seen in King’s Landing.

She reaches out to the side to light one of the candles by her bed. It’s only just the one, but all of a sudden, the room seems too bright for the strained expression etched on his face and the indifferent one on hers.

“For what, Your Grace?” she asks, her voice cold and detached. She sees him wince as though her words have cut through his skin yet she remains unmoved. She cannot afford to let herself feel now.

He doesn’t answer her question. Instead, he offers an explanation. “I couldn’t allow the North to go through yet another war, Sansa, especially not one against dragons.”

It’s a reason that makes sense, she knows. It’s a statement that she herself has thought of when Littlefinger first planted the idea of a revolt in her head.

But after the Night King and ice dragons and bears and giants and wights, after Joffrey and Ramsay and Littlefinger, after dead men who were brought back to life and girls who could change their faces, what makes sense has ceased to matter to her anymore.

“So you have agreed to it then?” Her face remains impassive even though deep inside she is anything but. “You will marry her and give her the North?”

Again, he doesn’t answer, but the look he gives her is one of guilt and perhaps even shame, and it’s the look that smashes the already thin cloud of denial that she’s allowed to envelop her like a noose that is tightened around her slender neck.

“ _Sansa,_ ” he implores, taking a step forward.

“No _,_ ” she says dismissively. “No, you will not speak to me that way.” She breathes heavily as she glares at him.

He gives a resigned sigh then. “If I hadn’t agreed, what is to stop her from raining fire down on the North and –“

“And yet you will wed her? This woman who threatens to destroy our home, our people… _our family_?” she hisses at him.

“Yes,” he answers exhaustedly. “To keep you safe –“

“Do not dare, Jon,” she snaps. “Do not make me the reason for your cowardice.”

He freezes then, a shadow passing over his face as anger flares in his eyes. “Cowardice? I have given up my own desires, my own future in exchange for a life of lies and politics in a place I loathe so that no one else has to die!” he retaliates. “What would you have had me do? Tell the mother of dragons to fuck off?”

“Yes!”

He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “And let Winterfell burn? Let Arya and Bran burn? Let _you_ burn?”

She opens her mouth to answer, but Jon takes a step forward.

“You almost _died_!” he says, raising his voice before exhaling loudly. “Right in front of everyone, with Arya and Bran watching, right in front of me... If it weren’t for Sam, you would be dead. If you wage war against Daenerys, even Sam won’t be able to save you.”

She straightens her back as she shoots him an icy stare. “I would rather burn than sell the North and myself to a foreign queen.”

“Do you hear yourself?” he asks, exasperated. “You’re choosing your own pride over the lives of our people!”

“If you know anything about our people, you would know that my pride has nothing to do with this! Our people chose you to rule them, not Daenerys Targaryen. _You,_ ” she retorts swiftly, pointing a finger at him. “Do you think they will stand by and let themselves be sold to her? They would rather die fighting than live under dragons and die anyway. As king, you should want the same.”

He scoffs. “As king, it is my duty to protect my people, to protect you and Arya and Bran,” he counters through gritted teeth.

“If surrendering the North, if giving up your people to her is your idea of protection, then you are a traitor and no different from the Boltons, the Umbers, and the Karstarks,” she bites back, seething.

Her accusations seem to seep out any trace of fight left in Jon, and she watches his shoulders sag. He rubs his face with his scarred hand and lets out a deep breath as his arms drop to his sides. And then he looks at her with the saddest eyes she’s ever seen.

“I did it for you,” he rasps out. “For our family.”

It isn’t the first time he told her that, and for a moment she softens. She allows herself a second of weakness because, as infuriating as it is, she believes him. She remembers the night he was crowned king by their bannermen after taking back Winterfell from the Boltons. They were in his solar, sitting by the fire and enjoying the quiet when Jon had suddenly turned to her.

“It should be you,” he’d said, voice low. “They should’ve crowned you.”

She’d only shrugged because, deep inside, she had the same thoughts but of course she hadn’t wanted to tell him that. “But they didn’t. They chose you, Jon.”

He’d shaken his head. “They chose wrong. You’re the one who got us here. I would be a corpse on a field of dead men right now if it weren’t for you.”

“That’s not entirely true,” she’d said as she picked on the embroidery on her dress. “We wouldn’t have an army if it weren’t for you. I am a girl,” she’d told him as if that explained everything. “They would’ve never fought for me.”

“I did,” he’d told her. “I was going to leave. You convinced me to stay, to fight  and take our home back.”

He’d turned to her then and waited until she’d met his eyes before saying, “I did it for you, Sansa. And I will keep doing what I have to do to keep you safe.”

Now, as she watches him almost fold into himself with despair, she knows he’s telling the truth when he says she did it for her. And that is what makes it worse.

“Will you undo it?” she asks suddenly. “Your decision, will you take it back?”

“Sansa –“

“For me,” she blurts out, trying not to sound like she’s begging but also knowing her efforts are futile. She chews on her lower lip in hesitation, but Jon continues to look at her silently, and so she continues. “Will you take it back for me? Tell her you’ve changed your mind, that she can go back south and marry whomever she wants, and just leave the North be. Will you do that?”

His face falls even more at that, and he takes another step toward her. “Sansa –“

“Stop saying my name!” she almost yells, and he freezes. Looking at anywhere else but him, she waits until she is able to reign in her emotions, aware that it wouldn’t do for the whole castle to hear what is transpiring between their lady and king. When she regains her bearings, she turns to him once more and says in a steady and even tone, “I would have your answer, Your Grace.”

He stares at her, pain and longing so clearly etched on his face. And she stares at him, defiance and obstinacy etched on hers. One wears a mask, the other has never even tried to.

“This… this will protect you. This will protect Arya and Bran,” he finally says just above whisper.  “I will not be the reason why you all get killed, Sansa. I will not. _Please._ I need you all safe. I promised to keep you safe.”

“What about the promise you made to me before you left?” she asks slowly. “We were in this room then too, do you remember?”

Jon swallows. “I will always remember,” he relents, and she hates how much it sounds like parting words. “But I shouldn’t have… I should have known the battle wouldn’t be the end of it. It was foolish of me to make such a vow.”

“And it was foolish of me to believe it.” The words slip off her tongue before she could stop them.

And it breaks him. “I’m sorry,” he pleads.

She doesn’t say anything for the longest time. Wordlessly, she pierces him with her eyes that are wide and disbelieving and so _so_ blue. There is no pretending anymore the shock that has painted over her features. It’s not the answer she wanted to hear, and, to her shame and consternation, it isn’t the answer she expected him to give. The ever-present memory of their last night before the battle has caused her to foolishly hope that just once he might choose her over everything else.

After everything she’s gone through, Sansa puts her trust in very little. She trusts in her own cunning, in the lessons she’s learned throughout the years that are engraved in her mind as deeply as the scars on her body. She trusts in the few people she has surrounded herself with, her siblings, Brienne and her other guards.

But most of all, above everything else, she has put her hope in Jon. She has surrendered her fears to him, has exposed her weaknesses to him, and has devoted every waking moment to the belief that Jon cares for her more than anyone ever has, that he might even love her as much as she’s come to love him, if not more because she likes to think that is how a man like Jon loves a woman – more, always more.

She thinks of her Aunt Lysa. The woman had been so blinded and so easily persuaded that Petyr had loved her until she was falling through the moon door, and even then there was still something in her eyes, a sign of desperation for a promise that he never meant to keep, for a promise he never even meant in the first place.

 _This is what it must feel like,_ Sansa thinks now, _to fall and fall and fall without an end in sight, to keep falling until you start begging for that crashing blow to end your misery but it never comes._

It came when Joffrey made her look at her father’s head, and then again when he had her stripped naked and beaten in front of the entire court. It came when Ramsay tore her dress – and her body –apart on their wedding night, and every night until her escape. It came when Littlefinger got tired of waiting and tried to take her the way he always imagined he’d take her mother.

But Jon. Jon would rather die than hurt her the way they did. He would put a sword through his chest before he would ever raise a hand against her. He would never find pleasure in her pain or use her to his own advantage.

And therein lies her downfall. Because she’s learned that pain inflicted by men whom she despises is something she can bear a thousand times over than pain that is draped over her ever so tenderly by the one man who, throughout her life, has been nothing but kind to her. It’s the kind of pain that tortures so sweetly and so mercilessly and leaves her plummeting into an endless abyss of Stark grey eyes and rough, calloused hands, and Jon, Jon, Jon.

Once again, she learns a lesson when there is nothing left but to suffer the consequence of not learning soon enough. And so, clenching her fists together so tight her knuckles turn white, she decides to deal the blow herself.

Unlike Jon and Arya and Brienne, she’s spent most her life using silence and words to protect herself. She’s already tried silence. Now, she resorts to the only weapon left at her disposal.

“You were right,” she murmurs, eyes hardening like ice crystals. “They shouldn’t have crowned you king.”

He raises his arms just a fraction to his sides as though surrendering to, perhaps even welcoming, every harsh word he knows she is about to say. And the sight of it enrages her even more.

“You told me not to trust Littlefinger, and I listened,” she says more clearly this time. “I only wish I listened to him when he told me not to trust you as well.”

She thinks it’s one of the worst things she could ever say to him, and she’s proven right when he abruptly stiffens, his whole posture going rigid instantly at the mention of Baelish. She wants him angry, wants him to lose his temper, because then she will have even more reason to lash out at him without remorse.

“All that man wanted was to get in your bed,” he says stonily as if she’d been ignorant of the man’s intentions the whole time, as if she didn’t kill him when he tried to shove his cock in her.

“The same way you got in the dragon queen’s bed? The same way you’ll soon warm her bed once more? Or is your cause more _honorable_ than his, Your Grace?” she asks coolly.

It’s one slap in the face after the other, and she wants him to feel every hit as if it were her own hand on his skin.

And he does. Jon almost staggers back, his face a mixture of shock and betrayal, her words a knife to a heart that has already been stabbed before.

“That is not fair,” he says in a choked voice.

And then just like that, the truth sneaks up on her and washes away the anger she so desperately wants to cling to for sanity.

He looks at her as if she is as foreign to him as Daenerys is to the North, and perhaps she is. Perhaps that is what they’ve become to each other now. Here, at dawn, when the smoke has settled, when the dead has been brought back to ashes and when the winter is slowly ebbing away into spring, they should be in each other’s arms the way they were eight moons ago without the fear and uncertainty they’d felt then. They’ve survived winter. They’ve survived the war. They ought to be happy and free and sated.

And yet they stand across each other, more strangers than they were when she was still a lady with Southron dreams and he the bastard boy of Winterfell.

“No,” she whispers, shifting her gaze away from him as her eyes begin to water. “No, it is not. Nothing in this world is fair.”

Jon remains motionless at first, but a tear rolls down her cheek and glistens in the candlelight. And then he’s walking toward her, slowly but determinedly. She doesn’t even realize he is right beside her, only distantly feeling the bed dip under his weight, until he is gently cupping her face in his hand and his thumb brushes the tear away.

It takes longer than she would expect of herself, and more painfully too, to turn her head away from him, freeing herself from his touch. She doesn’t do it to spite him, not anymore, but she forces herself not to care about whether or not he thinks she does.

“Forgive me,” he repeats his first words to her again.

She had asked for his forgiveness once, demanded for it even, as they sat in front of a hearth at Castle Black with a tankard of ale in their hands and the shadows of the fire dancing on their faces. He’d given it to her without a second’s hesitation and with a smile on his face as well.

“When I was a prisoner in King’s Landing, every victory Robb won for the North, Joffrey would have me brought to court, and he would order his guards to strip me naked and beat me with their swords and fists. And when Littlefinger sold me to Ramsay, every night I spent within these walls… every night I was in my own home, I paid the price,” she begins softly, eyes gazing at nothing in particular. It’s the first time she’s ever given voice to what she’s gone through.

“While you were guarding the Wall, while you lived with the wildlings and commanded the Night’s Watch, while you… died for your own cause, I bled for the North. Perhaps it’s retribution for wanting nothing more than to leave this place when I was a child. Perhaps I deserve it for betraying our family. I do not care to know anymore,” she says quietly. “All I know is that the more I suffered for the North, the more it became a part of me. But this is not just about me.”

She turns to face him then. “Rodrik Cassel, Maege Mormont, Dacey, Alysane, Lyra and Jorelle Mormont, Wendel Manderly, Medger Cerwyn, the Dustins, the Flints, the Tallharts – Northern sons and daughters, heirs to their houses. All of them died for the North. Greywind, Catelyn Stark… _Robb_ Stark… the brother you loved died for the North.”

“And you’ve decided to give it away to a stranger who doesn’t even know who these people are,” she adds. “You’ve decided that this foreign queen has the rights to the home _I_ took back from my tormentor, to the lands that _our brother_ died for… that she deserves to rule over the people who fought and died _for_ us. I’ve already betrayed our family once... I will not do so again.”

She takes a deep breath then as her hands grip the sheets to tether her.

“So no, Jon, I cannot forgive you,” she finally says, dropping her gaze downward because though she has succeeded in keeping her voice from wavering, she knows all her strength is bound to leave her if she keeps her eyes on him. He makes her weak, and she cannot afford to allow him to make her weak again.

There is no bite in her tone, no trace of the anger she expressed so clearly and boldly just moments ago. Her mask has slipped off without her permission, but she does not bother putting it on again. Since she woke to find him in her chamber, since Littlefinger told her about Jon’s deal with Daenerys really, she had been swinging back and forth from outright fury to an overwhelming feeling of sorrow. Now, after everything, she finds herself too exhausted to even attempt to put up the pretense of the former.

But of course, _of course,_ Jon makes it harder.

“Sansa,” he starts to say in a broken, pleading voice.

“Just leave,” she whispers desperately, cutting him off before she has a chance to give in to him. She’s already given him more than she could ever hope to take back. “I beg you, Jon. _Leave_.”

And he does.

And it’s like he was never there at all.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As time is running out, the Lady of Winterfell speaks with a lady of the North and a lady of the South.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally posting a new chapter after almost two months! I am so sorry for the long wait. I'm currently juggling one full-time and one part-time work, so by the time I open my drafts, my brain simply refuses to function properly. Hopefully, I'll be able to squeeze in more writing time before the next season of The Vikings shows because then I'll be even more distracted (any Vikings fan?). 
> 
> I'll be the first to admit that this chapter doesn't have that much going on in terms of content and plot development. That's because this is supposed to be much, much longer. I just decided to split one chapter into two so that I could post this one now while I finish editing and polishing the other. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you to everyone who has read this far, especially those who have left encouraging and constructive comments in the previous chapter. I apologize for not replying sooner since I have this habit of checking comments only before I post a new chapter. Please know that I appreciate every kudos and every kind word this fic has received, like seriously. 
> 
> You are all amazeballs. Even the trolls. ;)

"Lady Stark," a welcomed voice calls out to her from behind.

Sansa turns around and smiles. "Lady Mormont," she greets in return as the lady approaches her.

"It's good to see you've fully recovered," Lyanna says once she's near enough.

"Aye, it's refreshing to finally be out of the confines of my room" she replies casually. When the younger lady comes to a halt in front of her, Sansa notices the deliberate look on her face. "Though I feel that some fresh air would do me even better," she adds then. "Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the ramparts, my lady? I would very much like to check on the men who are camped outside the castle."

"Certainly," Lyanna nods right away.

As they make their way to their intended destination, Lyanna briefly glances behind her to Podrick who is following a few paces behind them.

"Do you not think it more prudent to have more than one man guarding you, my lady? Especially after what's happened," the Mormont girl asks. And then, making no effort whatsoever to lower her voice so that Podrick wouldn't be able to hear, she continues, "I can have some of my men guard you, men who at the very least command a more intimidating presence than this one."

For Pod's sake, Sansa purses her lips to stop the laughter that is begging to spill forth from her lips. Instead, she smirks, thoroughly amused by Lyanna's singular ability to be both brash and endearing in equal measure. And then she looks behind her and gives a rather stricken Podrick a reassuring smile to which he responds with an utterly relieved sigh.

"I thank you for your offer, Lady Lyanna, but I trust the guards I have now, and they are more than capable of seeing to my safety," she responds sincerely.

Then, as if he has heard Lyanna's concerns and has decided they hold some merit, Ghost suddenly appears beside her, nudging the back of her arm with his nose.

"Hello, boy," she greets him affectionately. 

The direwolf has been one of her constant companions these past few days, only leaving her chambers to hunt or when there were visitors in her room to accompany her. Ghost now reaches the height of her elbows and is almost as tall as the Lady of House Mormont, but Lyanna does not shrink or tremble. On the contrary, his presence seems to appease the lady seeing as there is now a satisfied smile on her face.

It isn't long before they reach the top of WInterfell's walls that are overlooking the open field that is now swarmed with soldiers, horses, supplies and tents. Sansa carefully eyes the different armies before her thought she already knows what she will see. After all, she's the one who ordered the arrangements and refused to settle for anything else.

Closest to the East Gate are the banners of a soaring falcon and the leaping trout. The Knights of the Vale led by Lord Yohn Royce and the army of the Riverlands under orders of her Uncle Edmure have been instructed to make sure no one approaches the gates of Winterfell without alerting her guards.

Among them, the golden lion flies over a small retinue of Lannister soldiers - men who have chosen to follow Jaime and, by association, Sansa as well. Should any trace of hostility or treachery arise, she has confidence that it will not be from their end.

She turns to the west and sees from a distance the banners that fly the golden rose of the Tyrells, the red sun of the Martells and the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens. Their queen, of course, has been given the largest guest room within the castle, as well as her council and most trusted guards. But the rest of them have been relegated to the empty field nestled between the East and North Gate. It was a decision Sansa wouldn't be swayed in, arguing that she would never allow the Dothraki warriors anywhere near the women and children of the North. It was only after Jon's insistence that Daenerys begrudgingly agreed to the arrangement.

And though she can only see a small glimpse of them now, Sansa knows that further than that, just outside of the North Gate is a group of men that flies the banner of the Baratheon's black stag with the newly knighted Ser Gendry as their commander. However, considering how obviously smitten the man is with her sister, Sansa likes to think that Arya holds some significant measure of influence over them as well. It is her, after all, who suggested that Gendry and his men station themselves outside the North Gate. The Vale and the Riverland armies guarding the East Gate, the Baratheon armies guarding the North Gate, the armies of Daenerys in the middle. 

In the sea of flags and banners spread out before her, not one of them is of the North. No, the Northerners and the wildlings who have sought refuge in Winterfell are either within its walls or camped just outside Hunter's Gate, toward the Wolfswood. The three main entry points to the castle secured by men who are least likely to want her dead, Brienne said as she advised her on how to settle the thousands of men who have survived the undead.

"His Grace has called for a council this noon," Lyanna suddenly says when they're far enough away from prying ears. "Only the Northern lords and ladies are to attend."

Sansa snaps back to attention and turns to her companion. She hasn't been made aware of this meeting.

Seeing the look of surprise on her face, Lyanna explains, "His Grace has just decided on it moments ago. I happened to be walking by when he emerged from his solar looking like he just witnessed the Night King come back to life." And then, in a lower voice, she adds, "It is why I sought you out immediately."

She nods silently in understanding as her mind begins to think of every possible scenario and every possible course of action for each. Biting her lip, she's filled with dread upon realizing that her greatest fear might very well become reality before the night settles upon them.

"Do you think he will do it then? Bend the knee?" Lyanna's voice breaks through her inner turmoil, speaking in a voice that is a combination of curiosity and anxiety. 

Before they marched off to war, Lyanna had been Jon's staunchest supporter, even going so far as to question Sansa's loyalty to him. But when word began to spread of the proposition Daenerys Targaryen had made to him and the absence of a most adamant rejection from the King, Lyanna has since been unusually quiet. Where before she would immediately jump to argue for his cause, she now simply opts to look to Jon to wait for his response whenever one of the other lords begin to complain.

"What do you think?" Sansa asks in return, not wanting to answer the question just yet, but also eager to know what the Bear Lady thinks. When they had talked last, Lyanna had been less wary than she is now, halfheartedly insisting that Jon would come to his senses. "You've spoken with him, have you not?"

"Aye, I spoke with him right after our conversation," Lyanna answers stiffly. There is no mistaking the displeasure in her tone now. "For all his talk of White Walkers and the Long Night before when no one would believe him, His Grace seems to have lost his aptitude for giving direct answers now... or perhaps he's finally followed your suit when it comes to matters of politics."

Sansa scoffs then. She can't help but do so upon hearing such absurdity. "Jon doesn't listen to me," she murmurs in the wind, their last encounter still fresh in her mind. When she faces Lyanna once more, she sees an unimpressed expression on her face.

"What?" Sansa asks.

Lyanna rolls her eyes, and she is reminded once more of how young this feisty lady really is. "Jon Snow listens to no one more than you," she states objectively. "His Grace may not heed your every advice, but he listens to every word you say more than he does his Hand or the dragon queen."

She gives the younger girl an incredulous look. "What makes you say that? We've barely talked since his return."

"And whose fault is that?" Lyanna admonishes, lifting a quizzical brow at her. "I've questioned your loyalty to the North before, and I will never commit the error of doing so again. But I must tell you that the personal offense you feel by His Grace's actions has distracted you from the matter at hand."

For a moment, she just stares at the Mormont girl silently. Part of her wants to walk away now, not at all willing to be lectured by someone who is relentless in her remarks and who couldn't possibly understand her predicament. However, there is a reason why she chooses the Bear Lady for company more than she does the other lords. Lyanna Mormont is nothing but blunt and direct, and, after spending almost half her life wading through lies, deceit and falsities, she's come to appreciate those qualities in a person. As the Lady of Winterfell, she's come to realize the significance of having someone like her.

At the same time, part of her cannot deny the truth in her accusations. The thought that perhaps she should have talked to Jon sooner has crossed her mind many times since she asked him to leave her chambers three nights ago. Now, with Daenerys growing more and more impatient to claim the iron throne, she is left with little time to secure the interests of the North.

There is a stab of shame and anger in her gut for having given into her own grievances, for once letting her emotions control her actions. She doesn't even bother trying to deny that Jon is the reason for the growing number of missteps she's been having since he came back. That Lyanna knows this and confronts her with this only make her want to throttle her own throat even more.

Sighing, she turns around and walks to the opposite side of the rampart, intending to gather her thoughts before addressing Lyanna's concerns. But then suddenly, her eyes catch a glimpse of something that makes her lose her train of thought. Below her, Daenerys stands with Missandei just outside of the Great Keep as they watch the bustle of activity around them. The Targryen woman easily stands out among the flurry of gray, brown and black in her immaculate dress of white that matches her long locks. Daenerys certainly is the most beautiful woman of Westeros, Sansa thinks, which makes the Lady of Winterfell even more cautious - she's known too many beautiful people with the ugliest of hearts.

But it isn't her attire or her regal bearing that gives Sansa pause. It's her face.

There is a softness, a hint of vulnerability, on Daenerys' face that is so clear to her even from where she stands. It's something she has never seen before, and it piques her curiosity. The woman's violet eyes are trained on a spot at the far end of the courtyard that is hidden from her line of sight. Her gaze is both determined and gentle, and Sansa can't help but wonder what her eyes are seeing.

Then, as if on cue, the King in the North emerges from the corner, and it feels like she has the wind knocked out of her.

She's taken completely by surprise when Ghost licks her hand, aware of the sudden change in her and seeming to give whatever comfort he can. Sansa smiles at the silent beast as she lays a hand on his fur before turning to look at the scene before her again.

Like Daenerys, Jon also stands out, though Sansa knows it's only because her eyes are attuned to him more than she cares to admit. Or perhaps it's because of the cloak he still wears that her own hands have made.

Yet she doesn't allow herself to linger on his form. Instead, she focuses on the woman he's approaching. There's something she's been missing, she can't help but feel, and her instincts scream that it is right in front of her.

And then Sansa sees the dragon queen look upon the king with the most tender expression, and suddenly it clicks.

She is not a fool to think that Jon feel nothing for this woman. He himself has already admitted that he once thought he could love her. There is more than just their blood that ties them together - surviving an insurmountable battle is one, making love in a ship cabin is another. She thinks perhaps this is what has endeared her to him - the fact that she is still able to not only feel warmth, but to give it as well.

 _My woe and suffering have left me cold as ice and hard as steel,_ she thinks now.  _And yet hers has only left her radiant._

When Jon stands in front of Daenerys, the white-haired queen breaks into a captivating smile that could bring an entire nation down to its knees. Perhaps that is how she got Jon to agree to bend the knee, Sansa thinks.

But more than the allure and beauty the dragon queen exudes, there is no doubt in her mind that there is genuine affection there.

She'd been certain that all Daenerys had wanted was that damned throne and the North with it, and that Jon was nothing more than a means to an end, that she was just another version of Cersei, someone smarter and better in manipulating others, a dictator dressed as a savior.

But now, she finds herself playing with the idea that she and Daenerys are more alike than she first thought. Perhaps the dragon queen wants something more than her desire to rule the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps she yearns forsomething her dragons and Unsullied would never be able to give her. She wants her throne made of iron and a kingdom ruled by dragons, yes, but maybe she also longs for something that is soft and gentle and warm.

The possibility is too significant to ignore, the implications too crucial. Knowing what her enemies want most - that is the best weapon she can yield in a game where she's at a disadvantage.

However, before her mind can start sifting through the plots that have opened up to her, she pauses. She's used people's desires against them before - she's gotten good at it as well - but this one is different. This one, the ramifications would be too close to her heart.

What was it that Littlefinger had said about collateral damage?  _Nothing,_ she answers her own question. Petyr Baelish never thought twice about the people he used and abused to pursue his own interests. It was one of his very few weaknesses.

But more importantly, Sansa knows, it was his greatest strength.

As Petyr's ghost begins whispering in her ear, her resolve breaks, and she shifts her gaze to the back of Jon's head. Oh, how she wishes she can see his face as well. Does he return Daenerys' smile? And if so, is it the crooked smile he used to give her? 

Ghost whines, and she smooths a hand over the direwolf's coat in a soothing gesture.

"Lady Stark?"

She whips her head around in mild surprise, having forgotten Lyanna's presence. She sees the little lady cast a glance past her before looking at her once more with a knowing expression.

"Speak to His Grace," Lady Mormon urges. "Out of everyone here, you have the best chance of convincing him."

For a second, she's tempted to tell her that she already has. But then doing so might lead to Lyanna asking about how their conversation had gone, and Sansa isn't ready to tell anyone about that, not even Brienne who was guarding her door that night and who came in after Jon left to make sure her lady was okay.

"I will," she says instead, truly meaning it because she vows that the next time she speaks with him, she will leave her heart out of it. Maybe then Jon would see reason. Maybe. Releasing a heavy sigh, she adds, "And if I fail?"

Lyanna's jaw tightens. It's no secret that the other Northern lords have begun whispering to each other about Jon's submission to the Targaryen queen, but it is the first time either women has voiced out the possibility of their worst fears coming true. 

Sansa thinks that perhaps she shouldn't put the younger girl in this position. It reminds her of Arya and her fierce loyalty to Jon, and the crushing disappointment she's bound to feel if he refuses to change his mind. But then her sister has always been more devoted to Jon than to anything else. The girl before her, on the other hand, is wholeheartedly committed to the North.

"The other lords have spoken as I'm sure you well know even though you pretend not to, and they are all in agreement," Lyanna states evenly though her fists are clenched.

"And what of you?" she asks carefully. "I respect the other lords, my lady, but you ought to know by now that your opinion holds weight as much as the rest of them."

It is true. Sansa does know what the other lords have been whispering under their breath, but what she doesn't know is what the girl in front of her thinks. And she finds that she can't feel at ease without having her support. She will not admit it out loud, but she knows it all leads back to Jon. Perhaps if his biggest ally supports her cause, the doubts that plague her in her sleep would lessen. 

After a brief silence, Lyanna tilts her chin up higher as she straightens her back. "His Grace may forget, but House Mormont will always remember," she begins, her voice firm and unwavering.

In response, Sansa takes a deep and shaky breath, anxiety filling her up to the brim though she will be damned if she lets it show. Most of the pieces have already been set no matter if she likes where they've fallen or not. Her only option now is to make sure the remaining pieces land exactly where she needs them to. And when that is done, there is nothing left to do but to make her play.

And she will.

 

* * *

 

  
She thought long and hard about whether it would be wise to come here. It is a risk that could lead to disastrous consequences at worst and possibly sheer disappointment at best. But she's chosen to come anyway because fear of losing everything you've fought for can make one do ill-advised things.

"Does this place remind you of home, my lady?" Sansa asks in a voice that she has very rarely used since they killed Lady. It's the voice that holds no trace of motive or hidden intention, only curiosity.

"I may be an old woman, child, but my memory is the same as it has always been," the woman in front of her answers. "I need no reminding of my home."

It seems that Olenna Tyrell's wit is too much for even the harshest of winters to break.

"Of that, I've no doubt," she agrees. "It is just that I've noticed how often you spend your time here."

She isn't at all surprised that the Queen of Thorns can often be found here in the glass gardens of Winterfell. Back when she was still in King's Landing, when she thought she would be wed to Willas Tyrell, Margaery would often describe to her the lush greenery of her home, how it would burst with the colors of flowers throughout the year.

Every time Sansa would visit the glass gardens during its rebuilding, the images she would often have in her head would be how she pictured Margaery's home in the Reach. And her thoughts would then drift to the late Rose of HIghgarden. Until now, she can't say for certain whether or not she considers Margaery Tyrell a friend, but she had treated her better than most. And it is in moments like this when she still feels a trace of the fondness she once felt for the fallen queen.

"Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I was hoping you would?" Lady Olenna asks with an arched brow.

"It did," she replies evenly, not at all betraying the anticipation that is sparked by Olenna's question.

Lady Tyrell quirks her lips the same way her granddaughter so often used to. "And yet you approach me only now."

"I wasn't sure I would be welcomed," she says, tilting her head slightly downward in a show of modesty.

"I was of no use to you, you mean," she responds with a smirk. Before Sansa can contest, the old woman continues on. "Oh let's not bother with useless courtesies. We've spoken truthfully to each other before. We can do so again."

She's tempted to point out the inaccuracy of her words. There was never an exchange of truths between them. Olenna had asked for it, and she had given it. There was nothing she received in return except a necklace used to poison a bastard king.

She keeps the thought to herself however. Despite knowing that the Tyrell matriarch had used her, the Lady of Winterfell still holds a measure of respect for the Queen of Thorns - that, and the Reach has the biggest surviving army after the Vale.

Olenna gestures to the seat beside her, a silent command for Sansa to sit which she heeds.

"I heard Cersei is behind your poisoning," the woman begins.

"It makes the most sense," she replies casually, smoothing her dress before turning to look at Olenna. She waits until the elder woman meets her gaze before adding, "She still thinks I killed her son."

Lady Tyrell, at least, has the decency to allow a shred of contrition flash across her face. "Ah yes, the little shit. I almost forgot about him," the woman says nonchalantly. "Is that why you've come to speak with me?"

_Yes._

"No, my lady," she answers easily. "Whether Cersei thinks I killed her son or not is of no import to me. Joffrey took my father's head when he promised me mercy. He deserved to die, and he did."

Olenna gives an amused chuckle. "My, my, Lady Stark, how you've grown to be a proper wolf. I am quite impressed. My granddaughter always thought you'd be a great ally. It's why she suggested marrying you to Willas," she confides almost wistfully. "I thought she only felt pity toward you - the girl always had a soft heart, but it seems she read you better than I did."

Her expression softens then. "I am truly sorry for the death of your family, Lady Olenna," she says sympathetically. "In King's Landing, I was a scared little girl held captive by my family's killers and surrounded by people who hated me and laughed at my suffering. But Margaery had always treated me with kindness, Loras as well."

Lady Tyrell scoffs at the mention of her grandson, hard eyes staring straight ahead. "Loras was a fool, and so was my son," she says almost bitterly. "Margaery was the only one among them who had any brains and skill. She was the smartest of us all, my granddaughter. I told her to leave the Capital with me, but she loved her family, stupid as they were. And she was burned to ashes by that vile monster."

Sansa looks on as Olenna loses herself in her moment of grief. It's the only time she's seen this woman of unwavering constitution show weakness and vulnerability. Momentarily, Sansa forgets her reason for coming and acknowledges the old woman's sorrow. 

It's one she's intimately familiar with, after all - the kind of pain that she's sure will last until her dying breath, pain that taunts her in the mirror and lurks behind the shadows, pain that hits her at the very center of her soul, not sharp like a blade or a sword, but dull and heavy like dark clouds that bring the mightiest of storms.

She's grown wiser throughout the years, enough to leave no doubt in her mind that the Tyrells were neither her friends nor her allies. In her eyes, they were as greedy and opportunistic as the Freys. They were simply more charming and diplomatic about it than the rest.

But losing family the way they both did changes a person, she knows. It's the very first lesson that was taught to her, and it's a lesson she's learned more than once. It's a lesson she vows will never be taught to her again.

Olenna does not hate her like she hates Cersei. The woman might have sided with the dragons, but she knows it's only for the sake of vengeance. Everyone knows that even with the Golden Company at her disposal, it will only be a matter of time before Cersei meets her end. And when that happens, House Tyrell's reason for aligning itself with the Targaryen will have done its purpose. 

So what happens after that?

"My father was beheaded," Sansa begins in almost a murmur, her eyes trained to the blue winter roses in front of her. "My mother's throat cut to the bone, my brother Robb stabbed with Northern swords, my brother Rickon shot with an arrow to his heart."

She takes a deep breath then and faces Olenna. "You must understand why I cannot subject the family I have left and my people to a ruler who has done to others what Cersei Lannister did to your family, who burned one of your bannermen to a crisp along with his son."

The woman sighs. "Randyll allied himself with Cersei. He would have died some other way eventually." Narrowing her eyes at her, Olenna adds, "You do realize Daenerys killed him because he  _chose_ not to bend the knee, do you not?"

"I do."

Olenna leans back to study her. "And yet you still won't do it," she says eventually.

"I will not."

She tilts her head to the side, and Sansa isn't sure if it's a sign of amusement or confusion. "Care to explain why?"

Sansa doesn't answer right away. She already knows what she's said so far is tantamount to treason should Daenerys get the North for herself, and so she's very much aware that her next words should be painstakingly constructed - enough to soften the Tyrell monarch's fickle loyalty to yet another ruler, but also not too much to cause the same woman to use her words against her.

She takes a deep breath. Steadfast _like Father, wise like Mother, fearless like Robb, free like Rickon and gentle like Lady._

"My father did what was demanded of him. He confessed to treason when he did nothing wrong because he was told it would keep him from the sword and me from suffering. I was forced to watch them chop off his head not long after that. His concession did not make any difference. You and I both know he would have been killed either way," she begins. "Until now, I keep thinking that had he stood there on those steps and announced the truth of Joffrey's parentage in front of all those people, he still would've been killed, yes, but his death wouldn't have... been in vain. Perhaps the people would've revolted against the crown and forced the Lannisters out of King's Landing. Perhaps my mother and brothers would still be alive. Perhaps you wouldn't have had to stomach the idea of marrying your granddaughter to a monster like him. Perhaps Cersei wouldn't have been alive long enough to kill your family and mine."

Sansa clasps her hands together before continuing, "I used to think that I'd be safe if I just did everything I was told to do - I denounced my own family as traitors, I forsook my name and became Littlefinger's bastard, I married Ramsay Bolton... none of that kept me safe."

"So you would rather -"

"Daenerys Targaryen will get her crown, but she will do so by instilling fear in people. We've seen such rulers before, have we not?" she says resolutely. "How long do you think before the people decide they've had enough of them?"

She rises then and walks toward the roses. "She is also barren. Do you not wonder how that will affect her crown's succession?" she asks carefully. "Even if she marries Jon, or you somehow succeed in convincing her to wed Willas, her legacy will be short-lived. And then Westeros will be at war yet again over who will take the throne."

Sansa turns her head a little to the side to observe how Olenna receives her words. It's the first time she's ever discussed with anyone the dragon queen's inability to have heirs, and it's with good reason. The Olenna Tyrell she knows would take into account every political factor that could make or break a ruler, especially when she has something to lose from it.

"So what would you have me do?" Olenna asks. "Ally myself with you? Granted, you have the Vale and the Riverlands on your side, and perhaps the measly scraps of the Lannister forces, but you seem to forget that Daenerys also has two dragons at her back."

She's already shaking her head even before Olenna is finished speaking. "No, my lady," she answers truthfully because she would never trust a Tyrell to do something they will not benefit from. "I would not expect you to put yourself in such perilous position. I only ask that the Reach remain neutral on this matter."

The Queen of Thorns remains silent as she eyes her with an intensity that could make anyone fluster. If Sansa were a girl of ten and four again, she would surely tremble at being under such scrutiny. But she isn't ten and four. She is a woman now and the Lady of Winterfell, and so she stands erect, hands steady at her sides, eyes unswerving.

"Perhaps if Willas were to wed someone of the North, then the Reach would have reason to excuse itself from any conflict between the North and Her Grace," Olenna finally says, slowly and deliberately. "It was something we once agreed upon, yes? And you said it yourself, Lady Stark. Wedding Willas to the Queen will not ensure the future of my house."

Sansa does not so much as blink at the Tyrell matriarch's suggestion. She already expected it would come. Olenna's smart - she knows by now that the dragon queen will never choose a cripple for a husband and that her most pressing matter would be to secure the line of her house.

In all honesty, Willas Tyrell is a man Sansa thinks she would not hate. She has exchanged correspondence with the lord of Highgarden who is now at Riverrun acting as the first line of defense against a possible attack by Cersei. He is, by all acounts, a more tolerable man than any of the other Southron lords she's met. However...

"And marrying him will not ensure the future of mine," she states calmly. "I mean no disrespect, Lady Olenna. Lord Willas is a better man than most, but marrying him will make me a Tyrell."

"I certainly do not see any issue with that," Olenna says with a gleam in her sharp eyes.

Sansa allows a corner of her lip to curve upward before answering, "I am a Stark, my lady. And I will remain a Stark until my last breath. Haven't we seen enough to know that an alliance made from marriage never work?"

Obviously not perturbed by her rejection, Olenna merely shrugs, which only means that she never expected her to agree to it to begin with. "I don't know child," she says with a cheeky grin. "It looks to me that a marriage alliance between Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow might very well be the one thing the whole realm needs."

"The North is not part of the realm that which you speak of," she responds almost immediately. "We do not need a queen when we already have a king."

A wrinkled finger comes up to tap at the old woman's chin. There is mischief in her eyes when she asks, "Has it ever crossed your mind that perhaps your king might? Jon Snow is a man after all."

The Lady of Winterfell does not falter. " _Everything_ crosses my mind, my lady."

That makes Olenna smile. "Yes, I can see that. It looks to me like you've taken after Baelish quite splendidly," she quips. Before Sansa can utter the retort that is ready on her tongue, the woman speaks again. "His skill in politics, not his character. It's a compliment, my dear. Take it as one."

Sansa remains silent, unsure of what to feel about such a remark. It's one of her greatest fears in truth - to wake up one day and realize that she's become exactly like the man who saved her from the lions only to feed her to the vilest creature that ever lived.

"Daenerys can see it too," the matriarch adds. "Varys has proposed that she offer you a position in her council to appease the Northerners, and she hasn't rejected it outright. You could go back to King's Landing, no longer as a prisoner but as someone with the authority to punish every single person who so much as laughed at you - a marvelous comeback, don't you think?"

"I know what becomes of people who leave their home with the sole purpose of seeking power," she says. "Those who return have become skeletons that breathe in desperation and breathe out regret. Those who have not returned do not breathe at all. I have no wish to become any one of them."

A thick silence settles around them, the kind of silence that only the most absolute truth can wield.

"You've grown exceptionally well from the girl I last saw, Sansa Stark," Olenna finally says. There is a hint of fondness in her voice now that wasn't there before. "Dare I say you even remind me of my sweet Margaery - less sweet, mind you, but just as strong. And brave. I would tell you it's utterly foolish to continue fighting for this hopeless cause of yours, but I know you will not listen."

Surprising her, the old woman suddenly chuckles as she shakes her head sideways.

"What?" Sansa asks, intrigued.

"Your honorable father lied to the woman he loved to keep a promise he made to a dead sister. Your brother, the Young Wolf, beheaded his greatest supporter and married a nameless girl because of...  _honor_ or something of the sort," Olenna begins. "Then we have Jon Snow, the King in the North who will give up the North and be hated by the North all in the hopes of saving its people from a war they will undoubtedly lose."

The old woman stands up then, slowly but steadily. "And then finally, there's you. Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, perhaps even the Lady of the North, the Vale and the Riverlands," the Queen of Thorns says.

"What about me?"

"You're smart, my dear, and you're beautiful. But above all that, you've kept the North going the moment you took it back from the Boltons. Say the word, and I'm certain that even the men who are lying on their cots, bleeding to their death as we speak, would take up arms in an instant and fight for you. Not for the North.  _You_."

Olenna then gingerly takes the few steps needed to stand next to her. "Could you bear it? After toiling so tirelessly these past years to keep your people alive, could you bear sending them into the flames of dragons?" she asks. "Jon Snow certainly couldn't. The man would plunge a knife to his heart before he'd ever let anything happen to you and your family."

Unconsciously, Sansa tightens her grip on her skirts as she feels her heart drumming violently in her chest the way it always does when someone pays particular attention to Jon's obsession to keep them safe.

"Jon's idea of protection is different from mine," Sansa grits out.

Olenna breathes out a tired sigh, and then suddenly it's like her years have caught up with her. "You know, Lady Sansa, I happen to have grown quite fond of you. So I ask that you listen to the advice of an old woman who has the misfortune of outliving her children and grandchildren," she says almost affectionately. "Do not start a war you cannot win. Bend the knee. It would cause me... great discomfort if my queen declares you our enemy."

Sansa inwardly deflates at the implication of her words. She isn't surprised at all, but part of her had hoped that the outcome would be more favorable than this.

"I've fought wars from the moment I left my home with my father all those years ago, Lady Olenna. And in all of them, it always seemed like a losing battle," she says slowly. "And yet here I stand when so many of my enemies have fallen."

The Queen of Thorns shakes her head forlornly. "I'm beginning to think you Starks are your own worst enemy," she mutters. And then she looks over her shoulder and nods her head. Sansa turns around to follow her gaze and sees Brienne walking toward them in the distance.

"That woman's loyalty to you surpasses anything I've ever seen in my life. She would die for you, willingly and gladly, Jaime Lannister as well. You've done the impossible in that you've managed to turn him away from his despicable sister," Olenna says. "So for their sake as much as yours, I do hope you know what you're doing, child, for surely I do not."

"I do," Sansa says.

The other woman nods. "Very well," she concedes and turns to make her way further into the gardens. But before Olenna walks any further, she hesitates.

"I'm not completely heartless, Lady Stark," she says in a low voice. "I am aware that I played a part in Cersei's attempt at your life one way or another, so I suppose I do owe you an apology. The Lannisters aren't the only ones who pay their debts."

Not waiting for a response, the Queen of Thorns walks away as Sansa releases the breath she didn't know she's been holding.

"My lady," Brienne greets her.

"Brienne," she replies with a smile.

Sensing the change in her disposition, the lady knight tilts her head down and murmurs, "Is it safe to assume that your conversation with Lady Tyrell went well?"

Sansa looks behind her and watches the retreating back of Lady Olenna. "Not as well as I'd hoped," she confesses. "But well enough considering the circumstances."

"The King is in his solar," Brienne reports. "Queen Daenerys has opted to have luncheon with her men. I suspect she will be gone for the next hour or so."

Taking a deep breath, she turns around to face her sworn shield. "Let's be on our way then."


End file.
